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ELECTA. 


BY MRS. NATHANIEL CONKLIN. 

(JENNIE M. DRINKWATER.) 


1 . TESSA WADSWORTH^S DISCIPLINE. $1.50. 

“It is a long while since we have read a story which is more thoroughly 
satisfactory in every respect than this. To be sure it is only a love-story, but 
it is a love-story of a very high order, and one to be thoroughly indorsed. 
The style is vigorous and animated; the descriptions are picturesque; the con- 
versations are easy, natural, and suggestive; and the characters are drawn 
with great fidelity to life.” — Christian Intelligencer. 


II. RUFS HELPS $1.50. 

“‘Rue’s Helps’ is by Jennie M. Drinkwater, the author of 'Tessa Wads- 
worth’s Discipline.’ That was such a charming book in every way that we 
felt sure of liking this, and we have not been disappointed. It is very inter- 
esting and it is religious while it deals very naturally with every-day sort of 
people. The boys and girls, old and young alike, will relish it. It is the sort 
of book which ought to be multiplied on our Sabbath-school library shelves.” 
Congregationalist, 


III. ELECTA $1.50. 

“ The charm is that the people in it all seem life-like, and the reader is caused 
at once to feel acquainted with them and to be interested in their fortunes.” 


IV. ONLY NED; or, Grandmamma’s Lesson. $1.25. 

“ The loving old grandma, hard aunt, bright cousin, true and tough Deacon 
Griggs, judicious schoolmaster, and boiling, bursting, Ned Arrowsmith, are all 
true to life. We like them all.” — Christian Advocate. 


V. NOT BREAD ALONE'; or, Miss Helen’s 

Neighbors. i6mo $1*25. 

“This is a charming book, designed to illustrate the relation of prayer to 
every-day life.” — Baptist Union. 


VI. FRED AND JEANIE, and how they 

LEARNED ABOUT GoD. l6mO. . . . $ 1 . 2 ^. 

** The author, as in her previous books, shows an intimate knowledge of child 
life, and the children that she delights in are very engaging,” — Christian 
Advocate. 


ROBERT CARTER & BROTHERS, 

New York. 


3 


Electa 


BY 


MRS. NATHANJEL CONKLIN. 

(JENNIE M. DRINKWATER.) 


AUTHOR OF “TESSA WADSWORTH’S DISCIPLINE,” “ RUE’S HELPS,” ETC. 




\ 


'/ pray not that Thou shouldest take them out of the world, but that 
Thou shouldest keep them from the evil ." — St. John xvii. 15. 


f ; " /i A / 
*\ . . 


New York : 

ROBERT CARTER & BROTHERS, 

530 Broadway. 

1881. 



PZ'i 


Copyright, i88i. 

By Robert Carter & Brother*. 


Cambridge: 

PRESS OF 

JOHN WILSON AND SON. 


ST. JOHNLAND 
STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY, 
SUFFOLK CO., N. Y. 


JjebitHteb 

TO 

MATTIE AND ANNA. 


CONTENTS 


1. Inside op Herself .... 9 

2. Outside op Herself ... 33 

3. Waiting 65 

4. Two Letters 74 

6. Suspense 103 

6. Out in the World 121 

7. Sheltered 139 

8. In Dark and Light 151 

9. A Long Day 182 

10. Adopted 227 

11. The Door Ajar 248 

12. Until Thursday 285 

13. Something Good 307 

14. Her Lessons 328 




















ELECTA. 


I. 

INSIDE OF HEESELF. 

“Are Indians good?” 

Electa did not hear, or if she heard, she did 
not listen. 

Indians good?” 

She raised her eyes absent-mindedly, smiled at 
her little brother, and fell to reading again. 

“ Are they, ’Lecta ? ” he asked patiently, rising 
from his knees and crawling through the short 
grass to her side. 

“Yes, sometimes, — some are.” 

He arose to his knees and leaning against her 
shoulder twined both arms in a choking embrace 
about her neck. 

“Was Powhatan good and Captain John Smith?” 

“Captain John Smith wasn’t an Indian,” she 
replied, laughing and loosening the clasp of the 
warm, wet, soiled fingers. She lifted her head to 
kiss the dirty chin — there was a savor of straw- 
berries about the chin and lips that she kissed. 


10 


ELECTA. 


Vail was as sweet as a strawberry any time to his 
sister. 

“ Did yon ever see any body that was killed by 
a snake?” he inquired, pulling her hat off and 
tumbling her ha^r. 

“ No, never,” she answered with laughing vehe- 
mence, dropping into her book again. The book 
was bound in leather, yellowed with age, and the 
stained fly-leaf bore her grandfather’s name : J ohn 
Vail Given. Vail called it his book. 

“ Did you ever tell a lie ? ” he proceeded after a 
pause of a second. 

But Electa, although she heard, did not care to 
listen. 

“’Lecta, did you ever?” with a tightening of 
the caressing arms. 

“Yes,” she whispered softly. 

“ Many times ? ” 

“Not very many.” 

“ Since you’ve been grown up ? ” 

She hesitated. “Yes, once. I was timid and 
concealed something that I did.” 

“What did you do?” 

“ It wasn’t much of any thing, but I was ashamed 
of it.” 

“ I mean what did you do about the lie ? ” 

Vail had been taught to call a lie a lie, and 
not a flb or a story; he had been taught to give 
a lie the name that God gives it. 

Electa hesitated again; it was difficult to speak 
of herself even to her little brother. 


INSIDE OF HERSELF. 


11 


“ I asked God to forgive me and make me brave 
enough to always speak the truth.” 

“ So do I; but He don’t seem to,” the little fellow 
answered mournfully. 

“No, He don’t seem to,” she answered to her- 
self. “ He don’t seem to think about me or to care 
any thing about me.” 

Vail played with her two long light braids and 
thought a moment. Electa was the odd one 
among the twelve, the only one with blue eyes 
and light hair; this distinction, with her name, 
was her inheritance from her grandmother. 

“ Has every body in the world but God told a 
lie?” 

“ Every body. I suppose,” she said, the thought 
running along with the thought that she was 
reading. 

“ Why cant God tell a lie ? ” 

“Because He can’t; He’s too good.” 

“ But can’t He if He wants to ? ” he persisted. 

“ He can’t want to.” 

“ Why can’t He want to ? Do you know why 
He can’t want to?” insisted the perplexed little 
reasoner. 

Electa raised her eyes and looked off towards 
the hills. Did she know why God could not want 
to tell a lie ? 

Suddenly a light shone into her eyes ; she closed 
the old volume and folded her hands upon it, as 
her father folded his hands over the Bible in 
church in the closing prayer, speaking reverently. 


12 


ELECTA. 


for had not God just revealed to her something 
about Himself, something that had never been 
given to her before? 

“Could you hurt mamma, Vail? Could you be 
so angry with her that you could take an axe and 
kill her dead ? ” 

“I couldn’t, I couldn’t — ^you know I couldnt'' 

“Why couldn’t you?” 

“Because I love her so.” 

“ And that’s just why God cant tell a lie ! He 
loves the truth just the way you love mamma, so 
much, so very much that He can’t kill it by tell- 
ing a lie. If God could tell a lie He’d kill the 
truth; there wouldn’t be any more truth — the truth 
would be dead. He loves the truth with all His 
heart and might and strength, just as dearly as 
you love mamma. And He wants us to love the 
truth just as much as He does. When we tell a 
lie it breaks His heart, just as it would break your 
heart if you should see somebody take an axe and 
strike mamma.” 

“ I’d kill any body that hurt mamma,” cried Vail 
in a loud voice. 

“ God does not kill us, because He loves us so, 
and He wants to save us to teach us how to al- 
ways speak the truth. But every lie makes His 
loving heart ache; it makes it ache because He 
loves the truth and because He loves us. If I 
should hurt mamma, you wouldn’t want to kill 
me, because you love us both; and so God loves 
the truth and He loves us. He loves us so much 


INSIDE OF HERSELF. 


13 


that He will punish us if we tell a lie. Oh, how 
God hates a lie ! ” 

Electa’s eyes were full; so were the eyes that 
were hidden on her shoulder. That very morn- 
ing Vail had told his father a lie about something 
that he had done. He had told the lie to papa 
because he was afraid of him. Vail was not 
the only one in the household afraid of gentle, 
stern papa. The dark, shorn head kept its place 
upon her shoulder for a long, sorrowful minute, 
then he lifted it, caressing her with his hands, his 
lips, and the top of his head, — he had six sisters to 
caress, — and then walked slowly away. He did 
not often move quickly; he was not strong; he 
and Electa were the only ones not strong among 
the twelve; if the girls had not been thoughtful 
and tender-hearted, their laughing, noisy life 
would have been a little troublesome to Electa^ 
and if the boys had not been thoughtful and ten- 
der-hearted, their lusty, vigorous, pushing life 
would have been very hard for Vail. 

People said that it was another of the strange 
things about the Givens that the boys were as 
thoughtful as the girls. 

Papa and mamma did not think it strange, for 
why should they not be? Did not the Spirit of 
Christ reveal itself as thoughtfully in boy nature as 
in girl nature ? 

Vail loitered and lingered down the overgrown 
path to the gate ; Electa did not re-open her book, 
she looked after Vail, and sat thinking. Her blue 


14 


ELECTA. 


gingham skirt covered both shoes as she sat there 
in the grass. She had a way of glancing down 
nervously to see if her feet were hidden ; the pretty 
kid boots were not alike, one was small and prettily 
shaped — as small and slight and pretty as any other 
girl’s boot ; the other was larger, with a deeper heel 
and even with this heel she could not step as light- 
ly and gracefully as the other girls did ; she could 
walk more easily with her hand upon Trude’s 
shoulder or with Celia’s arm about her. 

This lameness was one of her trials; another 
trial, almost as hard, in a different fashion, was 
the usual exclamation, “ What a family ! ” It had 
been hard enough when it was, “ Nine ? What a 
family ! ” “ Eleven ? What a family ! ” had been 

mortification itself, but “Twelve? What a fam- 
ily ! ” had been too much to bear. At first, until 
baby was six months old, she had not borne it at 
all. 

She could not explain even to herself why the 
exclamation so sure to come had stung her to the 
quick; papa was happy over it, and Celia and 
Mollie never seemed to care, but to her it was ter- 
rible to be singled out as “ What a family ! ” Papa 
repeated it sometimes with such a wondering and 
loving intonation that she was comforted. Per- 
haps the Lord said it in that voice, too, and if He 
did, she ought not to care for people’s tones. She 
ought not to care, but she did ! 

There were thirteen children in Grandma Given’s 
family; what would she do if people ever should 


INSIDE OF HERSELF. 


15 


say : “ Thirteen ? What a family ! ” Then more than 
ever would she be the one too many; she would 
even feel herself to be two too many. 

This deep, shady, front yard, enclosed with an 
unpamted picket fence, was Electa’s green tem- 
ple. It was nothing beside a commonplace front 
yard, green with long grass and weeds, and shaded 
with many trees, — locust, evergreen, and maple, — 
a damp, unwholesome place excepting in spots 
where the sunshine broke through; suggestive of 
malaria, especially as the brook ran through it; 
simply this and nothing beside to the butcher, the 
baker, the tin peddler, the doctor, the schoolmaster, 
and all other practical people who glanced in at it 
through the pickets or took a long look over the 
fence ; but to Electa, who held the baby there on 
a knoll in a sunshiny spot, or sung him to sleep 
in the shade, to Electa, who studied there, and 
read there, and wrote her journal there, shed her 
infrequent tears there and prayed her frequent 
prayers there, who dreamed dreams awake and 
asleep there, it was a temple, a palace, a sanctuary, 
a playroom, a schoolroom, a retreat when she was 
weary of the world and longed to be shut up in a 
convent, a Protestant convent, of course; for the 
girl lived an intense life, more intense than father 
and mother ever guessed ; when she was angry no 
one in the house was ever so angry, excepting 
papa, and through the long years he had learned 
self-control; when she was happy, she was wild 
with happiness; and when she was discouraged 


16 


ELECTA, 


and sorrowful, she was discouraged and sorrowful 
with all her might. 

“Don’t be moody, child,” papa often said; papa, 
who had been born with all her moods, and, 
through knowledge, by grace had outgrown 
them; but Electa had not his knowledge, there- 
fore how could she have his grace ? If papa had 
not been the happiest man in the world, he would 
have been the most miserable. At seventeen it 
was a question, whether the daughter so like him 
would become the happiest or the most miserable 
woman in the world. To papa it was not a ques- 
tion ; there could not be any question about it, be- 
cause God held the ordering. Electa thought that 
it was not a question, either; it was already de- 
cided that she should be as miserable as she could 
be. Who would not be most miserable to be born 
into a world where they were not wanted ? 

Every day she felt herself to be the one — the 
only one among all the twelve — who had no right 
to be anywhere ; sometimes she questioned whether 
she had any right to be at all ; she had no rights, 
no position; she was the only one who could be 
spared as well as not, aye, better than not; for 
without her perhaps Nan could have the summer 
silk that she wished for aloud every day ; and if it 
were not for her, it might be that Archie could go 
to the Mercantile College ; and if it were not for 
her food and clothing, the money to buy Kobin a 
piano might be squeezed out — poor little Kobin, 
who never could have the things she wanted ! 


INSIDE OF HERSELF, 


17 


All the others had a place, all the others had 
something to do for somebody, even the baby. 
Number Twelve, us Arch called him, had the right 
to be the baby — ^the sweetest, plumpest, laughingest 
baby that ever was born. Celia was the eldest, 
and she had the right to be the eldest, for what 
could the eleven be or do without her ? Six boys 
and six girls ! But they couldn’t be an even num- 
ber without her, or an even number of each; for 
an instant one day this thought had brought some 
little consolation, but like her other consolations 
it had taken speedy flight. Papa liked to say, “My 
twelve,” and she helped to make the twelve, that 
was all ; or to mar the twelve, was that it ? 

“Twelve children, and all perfect excepting — ” 
she had overheard an old lady remark only yes- 
terday. All perfect excepting herself, and she 
was lame. What did any body want her for? 
Who needed her ? There would be flve girls and 
six boys without her ; if she were not there, Trude 
would sit next to Ned at the table, and Eobin 
would sleep with Mollie; no one would miss her; 
“ Shoes for Electa ” would not be so often — would 
not be at all — in the family expense book that 
Celia kept and added up every month; she did 
not ask mamma for money as often as the others 
did. How could she, when she had no right to it ? 
She did not like to ask God for any thing, either, 
for she served Him so fitfully that she had no 
heart to ask for His good things ; only for the for- 
giveness of sins, — she must ask Him for that; 


18 


ELECTA. 


she could live and bear her other burdens, but 
she could not bear the burden of making Him 
sorrowful. 

Celia did not need her. She had mamma to love 
best, and she had some one beside that she must 
love better than mamma; and Nan did not need 
her, for Nan had Mollie and some one else; and 
Mollie and Martyn, the twins, had each other; 
Kobin seemed to love Trude better than she loved 
her, and the boys all had each other; no one 
“had” her, and she had nobody in particular. 
People were very kind to her, too kind, she bit- 
terly thought sometimes ; they pitied her because 
she was not like the others. Oh, why hadn’t God 
made her like the others ? Why had He thought 
about them and forgotten to think about her ? Or 
why had He not given her a beautiful face or 
some wonderful gift to compensate for her un like- 
ness? She was not as pretty as Nan and she 
could not sing like Eobin, and every one was not 
attracted to her as they were to Mollie, and she 
could not talk as entertainingly as Trude, and oh ! 
what was she born at all for to be different from 
the others ? 

Papa and mamma had eleven beside her, eleven 
without her. Did every body have enough with- 
out her ? Oh, if somebody somewhere only didn’t 
have enough without her! She would do any 
thing for any body, and go anywhere, if she might 
only be needed I 

The girls all had their special work to do, at 


INSIDE OF HERSELF, 


19 


home and elsewhere ; they did all their own work, 
and the work that she might have done, they 
were always keeping her from doing; saving her 
strength, they said, reminding her that she was 
not strong, taking out of her hands little things 
that she longed to do that she might the better 
take care of herself. And the dreariest of all work 
was this dreary taking care of herself; taking care 
of herself for herself They were all working for 
each other and bidding her think only of herself 
She wished that she had no self to think about; 
she could be as happy as any body if it were not 
for herself 

Why had she not been born a boy? If Arch 
had been born a girl and she a boy, there would 
still be the even number, and Arch would not 
have been in the way in the house, and she could 
have found something to do on the farm or out in 
the world; there was room out in the world for a 
boy, but who, out in the world, wanted a girl, one 
who was lame and not strong and who didn’t 
know how to do any thing ? 

She loved this old front yard, because out here 
she was not in any body’s way. Under the wide 
heavens with the wide earth all around her, how 
could she be in any body’s way? In the house 
when she was not sitting in Celia’s chair or read- 
ing Kobin’s book, she was using Mollie’s thimble; 
and when she was not troubling Trude, she was 
doing something that Nan did not like ; and then 
the boys — oh, dear! she could not get on with 


20 


ELECTA. 


the boys as the other girls did, only with Vail; 
she wasn’t sweet and lovely; oh, dear, she wasn’t 
any thing. She almost wished that she wasn’t any- 
where. She almost wished that there was another 
baby, and then there would be somebody to need 
her. It was very queer to be waiting until some- 
body should be born before somebody should need 
her; the world was so full, so over full of people, 
and yet with all its overflowingness she had to 
wait for somebody else to come. Perhaps in this 
very hour that she was bewailing herself under 
the maples, some child was being born for her to 
be good to, or some one was dying and leaving 
behind some one that would take her instead, or 
some one was feeling herself to be another odd 
one and crying out for her. But how could she 
find that other one? The way was long and so 
tangled for her poor lame feet, and she did not 
know which way to go. If she only needed her- 
self, but what did she need herself for ? 

Two fretted and fretful tears rolled slowly down 
her cheeks; the grass was growing at her feet, 
the leaves were thick overhead, a bird was flying 
high up in the blue, the water in the brook was 
running over the stones ; they were all doing God’s 
good pleasure, they all had something to do, they 
werejiot wasting themselves; and she was wasting 
herself on herself 

Wasn’t any thing wasted ? How many blossoms 
there had been on the apple-tree near the kitchen 
window; they had been blown away and how few 


INSIDE OF HERSELF, 


21 


apples were forming; all those fair blossoms and 
so little fruit ! Out upon the prairies, out in the 
woods, down in the ocean, in the vegetable, in the 
mineral, in the animal kingdoms were there not 
numberless lives being wasted? Did God like 
wasted things? Was He so rich that He could 
afford to make waste ? 

Was He so rich in people that He could afford 
to make her for nothing? Was she like an apple 
blossom drifting down from an overloaded tree? 
Wa^ her life a hidden wasted life that God could 
afford to forget? Did He have enough with- 
out her? Sometimes she did not kiss papa and 
mamma good-night and among so many they did 
not seem to miss it; so among so much love and 
service, God would not miss hers; she could creep 
back into herself and give unto herself, and He 
would not notice it; but it was so empty within 
herself; the things that she wanted she could not 
find within herself. 

It was stupid and discouraging and utterly self- 
ish to take care of herself all the time ; every thing 
that she had done that morning had been done 
for herself. But suppose — the thought flashed 
through her heart and mind like a flash of sun- 
shine — that she could not do any of these things 
for herself, then some one would have to do them 
for her! Suppose that she could not dress her- 
self or feed herself 1 Suppose that she were help- 
less, a burden upon all the others 1 Suppose they 
all had to wait upon her, instead of doing for the 


22 


ELECTA. 


others ! That ivas a comfort ! If she must be in 
the world, she could not give thanks for her crea- 
tion as papa gave thanks for his ; but, if she must 
be in the world, she was glad that she had power 
to keep herself from being a trial, a hardship, and 
a drag to other people. She was the trial, the 
hardship, the drag to herself, but nobody knew it. 
How many times she sighed before Vail reached 
the gate. 

“Celia, Celia!” 

The voice came from upstairs. Some one was 
always calling Celia. 

In two minutes there was a call through the 
house for Nan, and before another two minutes 
had passed somebody called Eobin. Another two 
minutes passed, but nobody called “Electa.” They 
were all afraid of troubling her, or disturbing her; 
the children had grown up to learn that Electa 
must never be disturbed. If Vail had been nearer 
he would have found something to call her for; 
she was never too busy to play quiet games with 
him, to read to him, or to answer his questions. 
Every one in the house, every one save papa. 
Electa, and the baby were too busy to attend to 
Vail. 

Papa had named the farm-house The Beehive; 
the hum of cheery life began before sunrise in 
summer-time, and ended — no one knew when it 
ended, not even Celia who was usually the last to 
fall asleep. 

There were so many to do every thing; so many 


INSIDE OF HERSELF. 


23 


to set the table, to wash the dishes, so many to 
sweep, to sew, to make and to mend, so many to 
hunt up lost things, so many to suggest, so many 
to ask questions, so many to answer questions, so 
many to play pranks, so many to say funny things, 
so many to keep up the chorus of conversation, so 
many to pet and to be petted; enough for orna- 
ment, enough for use, enough for every practical 
and theoretical purpose, enough for the prose of 
life, enough for its poetry, enough for every thing, 
enough for every body, enough without her. 

The kitchen was always full; so were parlors 
and halls and piazzas ; it was always full upstairs, 
down-stairs, out-of-doors and indoors. Beside the 
twelve and papa and mamma, there were the man 
and the maid, visitors, old, young, and middle 
aged, and callers! There always seemed to be a 
horse at one of the hitching posts, and always 
a ring at the door-bell. 

The family treasury did not need her, mamma 
did not need her to help keep house, papa did not 
need her to help him be a minister, the children 
did not need her ; did any one in her father’s par- 
ish need her to-day, or any day ? Who did need 
her in all the wide, full, busy world ? How could 
she be thankful for her creation then ? 

Every one in the Bible seemed to be needed, 
even of a colt the Lord had said. that He had need 
of him; every body in books had rights and po- 
sition, and if they had not in the beginning, did 
they not find the grandest position of all before 


24 


ELECTA. 


the book closed? Wasn’t David the youngest and 
least, and Joseph next to the youngest? and wasn’t 
it the same in fairy stories and poetry? “The 
youngest princess, Gwendoline,” had been running 
through her head all the morning. In books was 
it not the weak and despised who were honored at 
the last? 

She herself did not seek any honor, it was only 
to be like the others that she asked; just like the 
others : as loving and beloved, as honored and hon- 
orable, above all, as useful, as needed ; if some one 
only couldn’t do without her, as papa declared 
that he couldn’t do without his old slippers. Not 
to be a ray of sunshine, not to be a drop of water, 
not to be a breath of air, only to be somebody’s 
old slippers ! How the girls would laugh at her 
ambition ! Celia wanted to be like mamma, Robin 
aimed at becoming a famous singer, Trude longed 
to go to Africa as a missionary. Nan said that she 
was hoping to marry a senator, and Mollie would 
be satisfied to be nothing less than a queen, and 
here she was longing, hungering, almost praying 
to be a pair of old slippers. It was too comical, 
she laughed aloud with the fretted* and fretful 
tears still on her cheeks. There was nothing that 
she would not do or dare, there was nothing too 
hard or too humble, there was nothing that she 
would not give up, if she might only serve one 
who needed her services. 

“ Why, papa ! ” she exclaimed, lifting her eyes 
then dropping them ashamed of her wet cheeks. 


INSIDE OF HERSELF, 


25 


“ Why, daughter ! ” 

Papa threw himself down beside her, stretching 
himself at his full long length on the grass, turn- 
ing his face away from her and pulling a blade 
of grass and biting it. Papa’s eyes were very 
black and his hair and side whiskers very white. 

“Papa, is God so rich that He can afford to 
waste ? ” 

“ Just as rich as that.” 

“ Does He make things to be wasted ? ” 

“ He has made things that I don’t know the use 
of, if that is what you mean.” 

“ I can’t understand why some people have so 
much and some so little — the very things that 
some people want are wasting somewhere and He 
knows it.” 

“Well?” 

“It doesn’t seem well to me. I don’t like to 
think that He makes things to be wasted. And 
1 don’t like to think that He makes people to be 
wasted.” 

“ Who says that He makes people to be wasted?” 

“ I know they are wasted — lives are, human lives 
are.” 

“Are they? I don’t agree with you.” 

“Don’t you agree with me that things are 
wasted ? ” 

“Weeds and grasses and woods! Flowers that 
grow in solitude, perfumes loading the winds that 
sweep across deserts and seas; we say, also, wastes 
of water and wastes of sand; waste is made by 


26 


ELECTA. 


frost, by excess of rain, by excess of heat. What 
cargoes of pearls are hidden in the sea; what 
wealth of gold and diamonds are hidden in His 
caverns in the earth ! In the Gulf Stream alone 
there is a greater amount of mill force than in all 
the rivers on the face of the earth. Think of all 
the fires underground, what do they produce save 
now and then, here and there, an earthquake? 
God is so rich in fire and yet people freeze to 
death. I have twelve children to love me and the 
richest man for miles around would give all he 
possesses for one little one of his very own to love 
him. Our rich Father has enough and to spare, 
enough to waste, it seems, and yet people hunger 
for the things that He seems to throw away. Are 
you hungering, daughter ? ” 

Electa loved her father, but she could not tell 
him how her heart was aching. How could he 
understand ? 

“I rejoice that you are among the blessed: 
‘Blessed are they that hunger.’” 

He arose leisurely and walked away, not looking 
at her again. 

In an instant he returned and laid his hand on 
her bowed head. “ Child,” he said, “ your necessi- 
ties are your wealth.” 

“Then I’m richer than I ever expected to be,’ 
she replied lightly. 

“To be pressed into a corner, to be straitened, 
to be in want, to be forced out of one’s self is 
as much to give God thanks for as creation 


INSIDE OF HERSELF. 


27 


itself. Be thankful that you are born and born 
hungry.” 

“ I can’t,” thought Electa, but she said nothing, 
and her father loitered and lingered down the 
path towards the gate as Vail had done. 

Electa’s half glad, half sorrowful musing was 
broken in upon by the sound of a sob, followed 
by her father’s voice in gentle pleading. Her 
father was bending over the low gate, a slight, 
bent figure clad in gray, with the face concealed 
by a shaker, stood before him. 

Electa recognized the gray figure, and rising 
moved nearer to them. 

“ I ain’t got any Saviour,” the voice sobbed. 

“ Oh, yes, you have. Every body has a Saviour; 
ask Him to give you peace of mind.” 

“ That’s what I want,” cried the tremulous voice 
eagerly. “I shall never have peace of mind. I 
expect that God is troubled about the people in 
this world; there’s so much trouble, trouble, trou- 
ble in the world.” 

The feeble, white fingers grasped the minister’s, 
the bent form tried to straighten itself, the shaker 
nodded, and the gray figure moved slowly away. 

“ I ain’t got any Saviour ! ” The words fell cold 
and heavy on Electa’s heart. Poor old Mrs. 
Wayne! Everyone knew her; she had not had 
“peace of mind” for thirty years. She was one 
of the people out in the world. Electa shivered 
and turned towards the house, — the bright breezy 
house with its many voices and wide open win- 


28 


ELECTA, 


dows. The Beehive was in the world, but not 
out in the world. 

“ Electa, child.” 

Ah, some one was calling her at last. The 
voice was clear and full, sweet and low with sing- 
ing to sleep such a little world of baby-hood; it 
was a voice that gave the listener a desire to see 
the face, and the listener was rarely disappointed, 
for the face was sunshine itself, and peacefulness 
itself; it was as sunny as the sunshine and as 
peaceful as the blue of the sky; there was noth- 
ing sunny in the tinge of the hair and nothing 
blue in the eyes; the eyes were large and brown, 
and the hair, as brown as the eyes with threads 
of silver sprinkled through it, was brought down 
low over the forehead, the cheeks were as tinted 
as a maiden’s, and the lips as fresh as the baby’s 
own ; there were freckles on the low forehead and 
on the cheeks under the eyes, but no one thought 
of them as a defect, they were a part of her pret- 
tiness. If she had been seamed and scarred, I sus- 
pect that the children and the parish would have 
thought it beautiful, and, being a part of herself, it 
would have been beautiful. None of her girls and 
boys lived a cheerier life than the mother of the 
twelve. Papa said that mamma was the youngest 
of them all. Mamma had learned that life’s bur- 
dens were not to be borne, or to be borne only 
long enough to feel that they were burdens ; but 
the children, the older ones, had only learned that 
life held burdens and that they were burden bear- 


INSIDE OF HERSELF. 


29 


ers ; poor Electa’s hidden burden was the heaviest 
and dreariest one of all. Each was bearing a bur- 
den that none other knew, even papa and mamma 
had their own trials that they lovingly kept from 
each other; lovingly kept from each other, but 
lovingly gave to God. 

“ Electa ! ” 

The brown head with its many silver threads 
pushed itself through the honeysuckles that shaded 
the window. 

“ Can you come in a moment, we are all busy, 
and give this old man some bread and meat?” 

The old man stood on the back porch holding 
tightly in one hand a small black satchel. She 
laid the bread and meat pityingly into his hand 
for he was feeble and white-haired. His listless 
expression changed as he looked at her. 

“Do you know about the man at the Beautiful 
Gate ? ” he asked eagerly. 

“No, sir,” said Electa. 

“ At the Beautiful Gate of the Temple ? He was 
lame, don’t you remember ? ” 

“Yes, sir,” said Electa, flushing and feeling in- 
clined to tell him, white-haired as he was, that he 
was rude and impertinent. 

“They won’t let me stop over night, and it’s the 
dominie’s house, too. They don’t think about the 
Lord’s people. I often think about Peter and John 
and Paul ; perhaps they hadn’t a place to stay all 
night in. That night that Paul preached so long, 
I think it was because people wouldn’t take him 


30 


ELECTA, 


in and keep him all night, so he had to preach. 
Don’t you remember, the young man fell out of 
the window ? ” 

“Yes, I remember; would you like a glass of 
milk?” 

“Yes, thank you.” 

Electa stood still, not daring to stir, fearing that 
he would allude to her lameness again. 

“Nan,” she called. Nan was hulling straw- 
berries in the kitchen. “ Please bring a glass of 
milk.” 

“ In a second,” replied a voice. This voice was 
also like the face, round and plump. 

Electa edged herself away, down the two steps, 
and hurriedly hid herself among the currant bushes. 
Hot, angry, rebellious tears burned her eyes and 
cheeks. “ How can I go — anywhere ? — how can I 
do — any thing ? ” she cried, chokingly. “ I can’t, I 
can’t, I cant be thankful that I am born. There 
isn’t any Beautiful Gate, and I’ve got to bear it 
all my life.” 

There were voices on the porch, she shrank more 
within herself, crouching closer to the ground, com- 
pletely hidden by the currant bushes. 

“I’ve got to bear it all my life,” she moaned, 
hugging herself in her agony. “Nobody wants 
me, nobody needs me, I’m different from other 
girls. Oh, I can’t be glad that I am born.” 

“ The Spirit cometh as it listeth ” ; there was no 
sound, no voice, the leaves about her were not 
stirred, a wren flew over her head, there was a 


INSIDE OF HERSELF. 


31 


laugh within the house, a sound of “ whoa, get up 
there ” came across the fields, nothing was changed, 
nobody saw, nobody heard, God was thinking 
about His desolate child and spoke to her, not 
with upbraiding, not with counsel, not with new 
love or tenderness, only with His truth — 

“ Of His own will begat He us'" Of His own 
will ! It was God’s own will then that she should 
be! That she should be just as she was. She 
was born out of God’s own will. His will had 
made her; His strong, strong will; she could not 
fight against His will. He was too strong; she 
would not. He was too loving. She had just as 
much right to be in the world as Christ had to be 
in the world ; He came because it was God’s will, 
and so had she. Now she had a right, now she 
had position. She arose and stood upright and 
strong, God’s child in God’s world. He knew 
whether or not He needed her; He knew before 
He begat her of His own will. If He needed her 
to do nothing and be nothing she would try to 
be content; it was enough, in this hour, to be be- 
cause she had a right to be, and to be where she 
was, simply because she had a right to be where 
she was. His will could carry her through. At 
that instant she could have gone at His bidding 
through fire or flood. She was born again when 
she felt that she was born of His own will. 

“Papa,” she said that night, “I want to ioin 
the Church.” 

“Well, daughter,” he said, kissing her, “I knew 


32 


ELECTA. 


that you would come ; I knew that all my children 
would come/’ 

Mamma put her arms around her and said that 
she was glad, Celia and Nan and Mollie and Robin 
gave her an extra kiss, Martyn gave thanks for 
another one brought into the fold at family prayer 
the next morning, and then no one said any thing 
more about it. They were never surprised at any 
good thing coming to them ; they would have been 
very much surprised had the good thing not come. 


II. 


OUTSIDE OF HERSELF. 

“ Do every thing for ns that is in Thine heart 
to do for us, and make us able to receive it,” 
prayed papa one morning. 

Electa’s heart had been full with her own pe- 
titions until that instant; she caught the words 
uttered with such fulness of meaning, and her 
whole self leaped forward to grasp them ; she kept 
them in her heart, pondering them many a day. 
All that was in God’s heart for her to have; oh, 
how much that would be! Celia thought, ‘All, 
that is in God’s heart for me to give up;” papa 
thought; “All that is in God’s heart for me to be.” 

That afternoon Celia and Nan and Mollie were 
all three of them up in a cherry-tree; the four- 
quart pail was piled full of delicious oxheart cher- 
ries, the six-quart pail was nearly filled ; the three 
girls, the eldest three among the twelve, were 
laughing, chattering, and eating cherries, as light- 
heartedly as if all their world were bounded by 
the shade of the tree. They had been chatting 
about home affairs and village news, about mak- 
ing a dress for Trude and trimming Electa’s hat, 


34 


ELECTA. 


about how often John Knight called upon Susie 
Prentiss and wondering if he “ meant any thing” ; 
would Ned’s summer suit do, or must he have an- 
other? Must Cousin Emma be invited for next 
week or the week after? Would it be queer if 
they should attend the meeting to decide about 
the festival when every body knew that the pro- 
ceeds were for the back salary ? Somebody ought 
to call upon Mrs. Weaver, who had lost her baby, 
and who should go with mamma? And wasn’t 
Electa looking pale ? And Robin hadn’t been as 
bright as usual for a few days. And wasrit papa’s 
last sermon lovely? 

Celia had looked all day as if her lips were tired 
of keeping a secret; suddenly she stopped in her 
work of picking, and breaking off a twig near her 
hand exclaimed abruptly, “I got you up here, 
girls, to tell you something; Arch and Ned will 
upbraid us for encroaching upon their territory, 
but it did seem so old-time-ish, so like the days 
when we were young and giddy that I couldn’t 
forbear! And I have something to burst upon 
you, so be prepared to burst.” 

“You are not going to be married!” cried Nan 
in alarm. 

“No,” said Celia, picking among the cherries 
and tossing away a rotten one, “no, I arn not — 
ever, so we’ll dismiss that subject, if you please, 
flow and forever.” 

Nan looked ready to cry, Mollie opened her lips, 
then closed them resolutely ; if that were all, there 


OUTSIDE OF HERSELF, 


35 


was no more to be said. No more after this long 
five years’ engagement ; Halstead Seymour had been 
one of them so long, and now he was not to be any 
thing. 

“ Why, Celia! ” she began; but Celia was not one 
to be questioned, and Mollie put a rotten cherry 
into her mouth and was silent. 

“ Now, girls 1 — Mollie, stop eating, and Nan, you 
stop picking, — this matter demands serious consid- 
eration.” 

Nan dropped a cherry into the six-quart pail, 
stepped down upon a lower branch, and settled 
herself back against the trunk to listen. Every 
thing seemed dizzy and queer; it was as queer for 
Celia not to marry Halstead Seymour as for cher- 
ries not to be cherries. Mollie dropped a ripe clus- 
ter to the ground, detached the skirt of her dress 
from a dead twig, and stood looking down at her 
eldest sister. 

Through Celia’s torn hat a ray of light fell 
across her hair and face. Celia was the homeliest 
among the twelve; her face was long and sallow, 
her eyes large and dark, but not expressive, her 
hair grew low over her forehead, and, to her grief, 
somewhat thickly upon her upper lip; the large, 
frank, smiling mouth and perfect teeth atoned 
for that defect, but Celia did not believe it. Fred- 
rika Bremer had taken her hair out by the roots 
and made for herself a high forehead, but Celia had 
failed in her attempt to do the same thing ; there- 
fore had left her forehead as God had made it, not 


36 


ELECTA, 


without tears and a struggle, howe^'er. In Celia’s 
face Mollie could see only her strength of charac- 
ter, her utter unselfishness, her womanliness, her 
motherliness. 

“ Listen, girls, I am going away from home ! ” 

* “ Away from home ! ” cried Nan. 

“Away from home,” echoed Mollie, in the tone 
in which she would have echoed, “Away from 
heaven.” 

“ Yes, I am going away; I want to; I want to 
earn something.” 

“ You are ! ” cried Nan. 

“ You know that you are not,” exclaimed Mollie. 
“ Tell us something else.” 

“ What under the sun ? — ” began Nan. 

“What in the name of sense? — ” began Mollie. 

“ Haven’t you a good home ? Isn’t every body 
kind to you ? Are you hungry, or thirsty, or cold, 
or naked or unappreciated?” inquired Nan seri- 
ously. “ Are you tired of us ? ” 

“ I do not choose — ^yes, I do — I choose to go. If 
we are the salt of the earth, I want to go out to 
help salt it a little.” 

“ Oh a missionary spirit ! ” exclaimed Mollie. 

“ Nothing of the kind. I want to go that I may 
help those at home. If half a dozen of us could 
go, the other half dozen would fare bountifully.” 

“Do I eat your share?” inquired Mollie con- 
cernedly. 

“ Do I sleep in your bed ? ” inquired Nan, look- 
ing aggrieved. 


OUTSIDE OF HERSELF. 


37 


“Now, girls, hush up with your nonsense. 
Somebody ought to earn something; all we have 
is father’s small salary, the farm, and mother’s 
money ; and there are — yes, sad and delightful fact, 
— there are twelve of us ! Martyn has rested from 
college and is ready for the seminary; — Mollie, sit 
down, you’ll fall; and Nan, don’t swing that pail; 
don’t look at me so, either; — and Arch wants to 
go to the Mercantile College, and Trude is ‘ dying ’ 
— she says she is — to go to boarding-school ; we’ve 
all been but Electa, poor child, and now it’s Trade’s 
turn. The back salary has been back these three 
years, the hay crop failed last year, and oats are 
failing this ; every thing on the place is out of re- 
pair, and that makes papa uneasy — ” 

“ Papa uneasy,” repeated Nan incredulously. 

“I’d like to see the thing that would worry 
him,” supplemented Mollie. “I’d like to know 
what you expect to do. How can you earn 
money ? ” 

“In more ways than one. I’m not quite as capa- 
ble as the French lady who could support herself 
in nineteen different ways, but I can do it in more 
than one. I can teach ordinary English, and I’m 
a good dress-maker, — ” 

“ Oh, Cele,” groaned Nan. “ I don’t like to hear 
you talk so.” 

“There, now, girlses. I’ve said it, and I feel 
better. I didn’t sleep half an hour last night. 
Now we’ll go in and can the cherries, and when 
you eat them next winter think of me as I stood 


38 


ELECTA, 


here in this old calico and resolved to do or die, 
survive or perish.” 

“ ‘ Give me liberty or give me death,’ ” shouted 
Mollie; “‘England expects every man to do his 
duty ; ’ ‘ it is better to be right than to be Presi- 
dent ; ’ — but you shan’t leave The Beehive, notwith 
standing. I’ll go myself, first, and go I will not.” 

“ I seem to be the only one that can be spared,’ 
continued Celia, meditatively. “ Electa is eager to 
help, she seems to have new heart to work lately, 
and you girls can do my work between you. I 
suppose you could send Bridget away; you would 
have to work like little dogs, though, and have no 
time for fun or going out.” 

“ Papa and mamma never will let you go,” said 
Nan decidedly, “you may as well make up your 
mind to that.” 

“Papa and mamma are reasonable,” replied Celia. 

“You’ll see; you know you don’t dare tell them. 
Now, confess, do you?” asked Nan, laughing. 

“Not yet, perhaps. I shall approach the subject 
by degrees. I have decided for myself that it is 
the right thing to do. What was I born the oldest 
for ? If I had been born Charles instead of Celia, 
you would all have expected me to help along; 
as it is, being Celia, why shouldn’t I help along ? 
What’s the difference ? ” 

“You can help along by staying home,” said 
Mollie. 

“I may better go than you,” suggested Nan, 
“we can as well spare mamma as you.” 


OUTSIDE OF HERSELF. 


39 


“No, I’ll go,” decided Mollie. “Cele shan’t go, 
that’s certain.” 

“ Suppose we all go,” said Celia. “ If the boys 
had only come first, then they could have helped 
the younger ones along ; but I suppose that mother 
was glad of us girls.” 

“ She is now, anyway,” said Nan. 

“If I were to be married,” Celia spoke very 
steadily, “you would think it right for me to go, 
and plan to do without me; now, what’s the dif- 
ference, pray ? ” 

“May I see the difference or never get married! ” 
laughed Nan. “I’m as sure you won’t go as I am 
that I shall stay. Martyn will never let you go.” 

“Nor Arch!” said Mollie, “perhaps we can earn 
money staying home. Time is money and we all 
have plenty of that.” 

“Girls! Girls!” shouted Vail from the piazza, 
“here’s a carriage load coming.” 

“ And these cherries to be canned ! ” exclaimed 
Celia. “You go and be entertaining, and I’ll can 
the cherries.” 

“ Electa can see them,” said Nan. 

“ She can face the cannon’s mouth easier,” said 
Mollie. 

“I hope they don’t mean tea,” said Nan, “for 
we have just cake enough for our original number ; 
we can stuff them with cherries, I suppose ; look, 
Cele, are they driving in ? Can you see who they 
are ? ” 

“Only callers,” replied Celia, peering through 


40 


ELECTA. 


the leaves; “Mrs. Allen and her two daughters and 
some of their boarders.” 

Electa had been sitting at an upper window read- 
ing “Enoch Arden”; voices never disturbed her, 
she seldom heard a word of the conversation around 
her while she was reading or writing; Vail had 
learned that to attract her attention, he must shout 
into her ear if she were reading. It might be that 
she had caught the sound of her own name, or 
that she had laid aside the book to muse, but cer- 
tainly she had heard ‘every word of the conversa- 
tion that related to Celia’s sudden determination. 

Did Celia — busy, helpful, happy Celia — think 
that she was not needed at home ? Mamma could 
not spare her, she was mamma’s other self ; mamma 
would grow old if Celia went away; home would 
not be home to any of them without Celia; but 
they would not miss her. Could she not go in 
Celia’s stead ? She could not earn so much money 
as Celia, perhaps she could not earn any at all, 
perhaps she could earn only enough to support 
herself; but that would be better than staying at 
home and adding one more to the family burden ; 
no one would miss her; no one was always saying 
“ Where’s Electa ! ” But could she go ? Wouldn’t 
it kill her to go among strangers? All her life 
she had dreaded strangers; an unfamiliar face, a 
strange voice had been the terror of her shrinking 
childhood; it seemed easier to lie down, close her 
eyes and die, than to thrust herself out into a world 
of strange faces and strange voices. Mamma had 


OUTSIDE OF HERSELF. 


41 


been too indulgent, it may have been, her dread 
had been tenderly delt with ; the other children had 
been sent on errands and expected to greet stran- 
gers, and lame little Electa had been kept under 
the household wing near to papa or close to 
mamma. 

“ I fear that IVe been too careful of her,” mam- 
ma sighed sometimes and she would have sighed 
again could she have understood her reverie this 
afternoon. 

Celia was so strong and brave, so old, her 
thoughts ran on; she was twenty-five while she 
herself was only seventeen; she was fitted to go 
out from the home fold, the home care, the home 
keeping; no one would look curiously at her, no 
one would whisper about her, no one would pity 
her and be kind to her because they were so sorry 
for her, poor thing ! And she could help at home, 
if Celia should go away ; she could find her niche, 
there would be enough for her to do ; she had al- 
ways thought that she would like to do the work 
that Celia did, and here it was falling into her 
hands. Would it be right for her to refuse to do 
it ? She remembered a quotation of her father’s : it 
was something about the hard thing usually being 
the right thing; but this thing was too hard. God 
was not a hard master. He did not exact it of 
her. Papa had said that it was a great sin to act 
as if God were a hard master. If some one must 
go, why not Nan or Mollie or Eobin ? But they 
shrank from it even as she did ; no, not so much ; 


42 


ELECTA, 


there was nothing about them that people could 
laugh at or pity; but Mollie could not leave mam- 
ma, she never could stay away from mamma, and 
Nan was homesick if she went away to stay a 
week, and Eobin — Eobin was always doing things 
for papa, — Eobin could not go; beside mamma 
could not do without them; she herself, was the 
only one that the whole household could do with- 
out. Papa had said last Sunday in Sunday school 
that people should look about them, first of all in 
the homes into which they were born; she had 
looked about her, and beside Jesus loent about do- 
ing good, therefore she might go about, too. It 
was a necessity for the others and for herself that 
she should go. Her necessities were her wealth, she 
would certainly find wealth of some kind in this. 
As no one would miss her — wouldn’t Vail miss 
her ? — she would be the best one to go ; they did 
not need her to stay, perhaps they needed her to 
go. But what could she do out in the world? 
She glanced down at her slender, white hands 
they were pretty and well-kept, but they were not 
very useful hands. They could sew, they could 
write as no other hands in the house could write ; 
she might teach little children, and she could be- 
come a nurse ; they all said that she was the nurse 
of the family. But where could she go to do these 
things ? Oh, how could she — so shrinking, so awk- 
wark, so ignorant! — how could she bear to live 
among strangers; to talk to them, eat with them, 
sleep with them. No, she must sleep alone, and 


OUTSIDE OF HERSELF. 


43 


she had never slept alone but one night, and then 
she had covered up her head and almost suffocated 
herself, because she had heard the death-watch 
tick. Celia could go, she must go., or Nan, or 
Mollie, or Eobin ; they were none of them afraid 
of strangers, they would none of them be stared 
at, or talked about, or pitied. 

“ I don’t want to go,” she cried aloud, with a 
choking in her throat. “I wish that I hadn’t 
thought of it. I can’t go. I won't go. I am 
younger than they are ! And I am not strong ; 
they will not be so cruel as to let me go. I should 
die away from home. Oh, mamma, mamma, don’t 
let me go away.” 

“Electa,” the voice was at the door, “you are 
dressed and mamma is busy just this minute, and 
Eobin and Trude haven’t come home from the 
picnic, and the others of us are all cherry stains, 
do go down and see those folks, and say that some 
of us will be down soon.” 

“I don’t want to,” said Electa, “oh, Mollie, I 
don’t know some of them.” 

“No matter, chicken, you’ll soon know them. 
How will you ever go out into the world ? ” 

“ I never will,” replied Electa resolutely. “ I 
don’t want to go down, Mollie.” 

“Take your life in your hand and run along; 
mamma will be there to bring you to in five 
minutes.” 

Electa laughed and arose ; she stood before the 
glass to study the face and figure the strangers 


44 


ELECTA. 


would have to look at. A slight figure, there was 
nothing the matter with that, a graceful little head 
set upon graceful shoulders, although Electa could 
not perceive it, an oval face, the only lovely com- 
plexion in the family, light-blue eyes with long 
dark lashes, a sweet shy mouth; the eyes when 
she raised them were so pleading and loving and 
intelligent that strangers were wont to look again ; 
of course her eyes could not see this in themselves, 
they could not see the tender beauty of the mouth ; 
all they saw was a troubled face slightly reddened, 
a pink muslin dress somewhat rumpled, the white 
muslin tie rather soiled, and the two long braids 
too ragged for company. 

“I must braid my hair over, Mollie.” 

“Well, be quick about it then; they can look at 
the books and views and notice how worn the 
carpet is getting and wonder if we whitewashed 
this spring and why the white shades are not done 
up often er. That will keep them in conversation.” 

But Electa did not hurry in rebraiding her hair, 
and Mrs. Given and the baby were ready to wel- 
come the callers before Electa went down. 

“ That proves that I can’t go out into the world,” 
thought Electa, after she had gotten through the 
introductions and blunderingly replied “Yes, sir” 
to one of the ladies. She gave confused answers, 
dared not venture an original remark, and kept 
her usually clear voice down her throat all through 
the trying interview. 

“ Rather gawky,” was one of the ladies’ verdict 


OUTSIDE OF HERSELF. 


45 


when some one alluded to Electa; “girls of that 
age are apt to be.” 

“ Did you say that she was intelligent ? ” asked 
another, “she can not frame two intelligent sen- 
tences. She blushes and mutters as if she had 
always lived in the back woods.” 

“ She has a lovely face,” another hastened to say. 

“If she wouldn’t color so, and look so distressed,” 
was the light reply. “ The others are perfect ladies ; 
I don’t see why she should be so different.” 

So different! Alas, that was always it. After 
they had wandered around the front yard and back 
yard and gathered flowers and eaten cherries. 
Electa had left them — Nan and Celia escorted 
them to the carriage — Electa sauntering back, 
completely hidden by the shrubbery, had over- 
heard every word; they had spoken in loud, care- 
less voices. Every tone had pierced Electa’s heart 
through and through. Gawky and unintelligent, 
muttering and looking distressed, as if she had al- 
ways lived in the back woods; the world would say 
that about her ; oh, that was as bad as being lame I 
She would never, never be introduced to any one 
again; she would never meet another stranger as 
long as she lived. This was the second conversa- 
tion that she had overheard that day, both of which 
influenced all her life; she was destined to over- 
hear a third which also influenced all her life. In 
these years, it seemed afterward to Electa, every 
event, every conversation of any weight, every 
person whom she met, every thought of her own 


46 


ELECTA, 


influenced all her life. The thing that she was 
most eager to know, the thing that she most 
dreaded to know, was the opinion of others con- 
cerning herself; afterward, it was the truth con- 
cerning herself that she cared to know. Late that 
evening she lay in the hammock swinging to and 
fro with a gentle motion and through a gap in the 
honeysuckle at the end of the piazza looking off 
towards the moon -lighted hills. The hammock 
was swung on the front piazza near the front 
parlor windows; there had been lights and voices, 
singing, talk, and laughter all the evening ; Mollie, 
Nan, and Trude had each come out to her, per- 
suading her to go in among them; Robin had 
started to come out to her, but Celia had de- 
tained her saying, ‘‘The child is thinking about 
something, let her alone.” 

The light laughter, the glad voices, the gay 
words that floated out to her jarred her as though 
she were in great physical nervous pain ; they 
were beings of another world, they were all alike, 
nobody ever made fun of them; how happy it 
would be to live in there among them, and be 
like them; to whirl around as Mollie and Trude 
were doing, to give bright answers as Nan was 
doing to that gentleman that she had never seen 
before, and to sit down to the organ and play and 
sing as unconcerned about herself as Robin was 
doing, to walk around as easily as Celia was doing, 
speaking such little pleasant words and bringing 
a bright look to people’s faces; even Martyn and 


OUTSIDE OF HERSELF. 


47 


Arch were not “gawky,” and Guy and Vail and 
Ned never muttered when spoken to, and never 
said the wrong thing; even Vail did not mind 
being introduced, and would never be guilty of 
such a mistake as introducing a lady as “Mr. 
Latimer,” and the gentleman as “Miss Midden- 
dorf,” as she herself had confusingly done last 
week. There were but three visitors this evening, 
and two of them were village people, but she felt 
too ashamed of herself, with “gawky” and “dis- 
tressed” burning into her soul, to go in among 
them. 

Two or three times she moved a little nearer 
the open window to catch the conversation; the 
stranger from the city was telling them about a 
friend of his who was well acquainted with a 
heathen queen ; the boys had tied themselves into 
a knot and stationed themselves in front of him, 
the girls, in a cluster, were as near to him as they 
could be, and papa and mamma were looking as 
interested as the boys and girls. Vail was asking 
questions, sitting on the stranger’s knee, and Ned 
was coaxing him to come next day and climb a 
cherry-tree with him. 

Electa swung back and kept away from the 
window; she was not in their good times, she was 
not like them, she was somebody different. 

“ I haven’t seen your daughter Electa,” she 
heard the stranger say. “I saw her as I drove 
past yesterday; I felt as if I must see her again.” 

“ Perhaps he wants to see if I really limp or if 


48 


ELECTA. 


ho only imagined so,” Electa thought with a 
hard, bitter feeling towards him. Mamma had 
always said that Electa had a sweet heart, but the 
sweet heart was hard and bitter to-night. She 
could not feel like loving God just now. 

“ Excuse her to-night, please,” Celia hastened to 
say, “ you shall see her to-morrow when you come 
to climb the cherry-tree.” 

“ Will he ? ” thought Electa laughing to herself 

But this was not the conversation that influ- 
enced ail her life. The lights were out, the visitors 
gone, and the girls had said good-night and gone 
upstairs. Electa had not gone in to evening wor- 
ship, because the stranger had remained; papa had 
read the chapter in the Bible, but the stranger had 
led them in prayer. She moved nearer to listen 
to the prayer. She liked to listen to prayer; this 
prayer was a very queer one. He prayed about 
every body and every thing ; he prayed about her, 
too, naming her as “ the absent daughter” ; he 
asked that she might be ready to listen when God 
should speak to her. 

“ Oh, I want to be,” she sighed, with quick com- 
ing tears. 

Her mother came out to kiss her good-night, and 
to say that she must stay out in the night air but 
a few moments longer. “ Yes’m,” she said obedi- 
ently, and then before she knew it she was asleep. 

“ Then you will not reconsider ? ” 

Electa awoke with a start; the voice was very 
cold. 


OUTSIDE OF HERSELF. 


49 


“No, not again. I have considered and recon- 
sidered. Halstead, I have been a whole year de- 
ciding. Do you think it can be the freak of a mo- 
ment ? I am not a girl, I am a woman. I feel as 
old as mamma. You must not speak so to me.” 

Electa made a motion to rise, but they were too 
near her; they were standing in the path at the 
foot of the piazza steps. They would think that 
she had been listening; she dared not rise, she 
hardly dared keep still. 

“I will never give you up, Celia Given.” 

“You have already given me up; I do not be- 
long to you. How can I belong to any one who 
will not take Christ, my Lord, and love Him too ? ” 

“You can help me and teach me.” 

“I have been trying to do that for years; how 
much have I helped you in all this time? Tell me, 
have I helped you ? ” 

“ I might have been worse but for you,” he said 
sullenly. “ I joined the Church to please you.” 

“ I knew that, I warned you.” 

“Can’t you trust me, Celia? Try me once again.” 

“Aren’t you almost engaged to Jennie Hood?” 

He shuffled his feet, he laughed. “ If you throw 
me over, she will take me.” 

“ Then God have mercy on her,” exclaimed Celia 
with intense quietness. “Good-night, Halstead. 
Good-by. I hope that I shall never see you again, 
— you have not broken my heart ; too many peo- 
ple love me and depend upon me for you to do that. 
I am glad that you are going away; I shall not 


50 


ELECTA. 


miss you, I shall miss the Halstead Seymour that 
I trusted.” 

“Then you will not reconsider? ” he pleaded. 

“ I tell you, no. May God keep you from punish- 
ment and give you repentance. I don’t know how 
to love a wicked man. I didn’t know that there 
was any one in the world as wicked as you are.” 

Could that be Celia’s voice ? It sounded as 
though she had both arms around herself to keep 
herself from falling. 

“ Will you kiss me good-by ? I am going away 
to-morrow.” 

“No!” 

Electa arose and stood upon the piazza; they 
would see her if she moved towards the door; she 
tried to walk away to the opposite end of the piazza, 
but her shoes would step heavily ; there was noth- 
ing to do but to stand still. 

There was a sound of tears, of broken, subdued 
weeping — Celia had broken down. His voice was 
so low that Electa heard not a word. 

“ I would rather die than marry you,” Celia cried 
excitedly, “ go away from me.” 

“ I don’t want the ring,” Electa heard him say. 
“Wear it for the sake of old times, Celia.” 

“ The old times are dead and buried, and so are 
you.” 

“ Will you pray for me ? There’s no one in the 
world to pray for me but you.” 

“ What shall I pray for ? ” 

“ Ask God not to punish me and not to pay me 


OUTSIDE OF HERSELF, 


61 


back in my own coin.” Electa by many slow and 
creaking steps had reached the end of the piazza, 
and buried her face among the honeysuckle. The 
fragrance of honeysuckle ever afterward reminded 
her of Celia’s great trouble. She herself had al- 
ways admired Halstead Seymour because he was 
so handsome, such a perfect gentleman, and so at- 
tentive to Celia. 

Celia came slowly up the steps; Electa did not 
turn ; she heard his footsteps on the grass. 

“ Electa, are you there still ? ” 

“Yes,” answered Electa with her face in the 
honeysuckle. Celia came to her and put both arms 
around her. 

“ Go to bed, child.” 

“I’m sorry, Celia; I couldn’t help being in the 
hammock.” 

“ I know it; don’t fret about it. I hope that you 
haven’t taken cold.” 

“ Look at the moon.” 

“ Isn’t it cold ? I don’t like a cold moon. Now 
run to bed.” 

“Will you go to bed too ? ” asked Electa tenderly. 

“Yes, dear; I must do a few things first. Papa 
is in the study; he must write late to-night. 
Now, birdie, fly to your nest; my birdlings are 
all safe.” 

If she could only say something to comfort her ! 
All her heart burst out in a caress and quiok words 
that surprised herself, “ 0 Celia, I’m glad that 
you’ll never have to go away; only some good. 


52 


ELECTA. 


good man shall have you — some one like papa, 
or the strange gentleman that was here to-night.” 

With a kiss Celia sent her upstairs, then went 
about the house to do the last things. The study 
door was ajar; Celia needed human love and com- 
forting to-night. “ Papa ! ” She stood upon the 
threshold. The white head was bent over a pile 
of neatly written manuscript. 

“ Papa ! ” she went to him, lifted his head with 
both hands, and kissed his lips. 

“ Why, daughter, not in bed yet ? ” 

“ Pray for me,” she whispered huskily. “ 1 have 
sent Halstead away. I shall never see him any 
more.” 

“ You are a brave and good woman.” 

Like a very weak woman she staggered up the 
stairs holding tightly to the railing. 

“ I have lived my life,” she thought, alone in the 
dark an hour after midnight; “it has ended very 
soon ; I wasn’t ready to give it up.” 

At the same instant, alone in the dark. Electa 
was resolving with prayers and tears and great 
sinking of heart that she would go away instead 
of Celia; Celia must not go now that she was in 
such dreadful trouble, she must not leave papa and 
mamma and Guy. Guy had been Celia’s baby since 
Baby had come. She fell asleep sobbing, “ I will 
go; I will go.” Awaking suddenly with the dread 
of going away upon her, she opened her eyes upon 
the light, the door of her chamber stood partly 
open, the hall was flooded with light. 


OUTSIDE OF HERSELF. 


53 


The strange light, the strange, bright light was 
a sign for her, a word from God that He was pleased 
with her self-renunciation; the stranger’s prayer 
was answered so soon ; God was speaking, and she 
was ready to hear. Awed and thrilled, she was 
too thoroughly startled to look again towards the 
light, she crept shiveringly down into the bed and 
covered her head. God was very near and she was 
afraid; trembling and shaking and yet exalted to 
ecstatic tears, she thanked Him again and again, 
vowing to go away as soon as she could, and to be 
self-denying and helpful all her life. With the 
memory of this sudden and bright light in her 
heart, it was not hard for her to awake as joyful 
as the birds. 

The strange gentleman called to climb the cher- 
ry-tree, but Electa, catching a glimpse of him at 
the gate, and fearing that he would ask for her, 
snatched her garden hat and hurried out of the 
back door. With a book upon insects she passed 
the next hour under the shadow of a stack of new 
hay behind the barn. 

Vail found her there after the strange gentle- 
man had gone. “Oh, why didn’t you come?” 
he cried regretfully, “we had a splendid time; 
nobody could find you, and he’s going away to 
stay a year; he promised us that he’d come again 
next year in cherry time.” 

“I shan’t be here then, either,” she said almost 
sorrowfully. 

“ 0, papa, papa ! ” Mollie had cried that morn- 


54 


ELECTA, 


ing, “you dear, darling, absent-minded papa! Do 
you know what you did last night? You left 
your study lamp in the hall and both burners 
burned all night; I came down this morning and 
found it just going out.” 

“Did I do that?” he asked coloring. He was 
very sensitive concerning his absent-mindedness. 

“I went out to the well for a glass of cool 
water and came in and forgot it. Perhaps it was 
providential.” 

Mollie was not always patient with papa’s 
“providential” carelessness. They never knew 
how providential it was to Electa. Poor Electa 
shed some bitter tears when she learned that she 
had been deceived. Her interpretation — her mis- 
interpretation rather — ^^vas one of those mistakes 
that God deals with very tenderly. She was so 
anxiously eager to hear His voice and behold His 
face that she could not wait until He revealed 
Himself; she had made a face and voice for her- 
self. Hard tears, bitter tears, rebellious tears, 
reproachful tears she had shed that morning, that 
very morning in which she awoke as joyful as 
the birds. Why had God let her deceive herself 
so? She was so young, so weak, so ignorant; 
why did He not teach her ? It seemed as if He 
were laughing at her. Did she wish that she 
could have remained deceived? A thousand times 
no; she would rather know the heart-breaking 
truth than to trust in a lie. God had not told 
her a lie, but He had let her tell herself a lie. 


OUTSIDE OF HERSELF. 


55 


“Why won’t you be here?” cried Vail, in as- 
tonishment. “Are you going to get married?” 

“I don’t know where I shall be; I know that 
I shan’t be here,” she said resolutely. 

Looking up the lane Vail saw a load of hay 
moving towards him. “Stop for me; wait for 
me,” he shouted wildly, waving his hat and run- 
ning towards it. 

Electa gathered herself together and followed 
Vail up the lane. Martyn was on the load of hay, 
Ned was driving. They stopped for Vail, and he 
climbed to the top, seating himself at Martyn ’s 
side with flushed cheeks and quickened breath. 
Ned coaxed Electa to mount, but she shook her 
head and walked on. “Are you going to get 
married?” Vail had innocently asked, for what 
else could take her away from home? 

Electa would have been most humiliatingly 
ashamed for any one to know it, but Vail’s ques- 
tion had touched a sore spot in her heart. Long 
ago she had decided that she could never be mar- 
ried; all the girls would be married and have 
happy homes, every one of them excepting her- 
self; they would have children to love and be 
proud of, and husbands like papa to protect and 
shield them and teach them every thing and help 
them to be good; and by and by they would be 
grandmothers and have more little children to 
love them ; and they would all think about them- 
selves, and not care for her, and papa and mam- 
ma would be dead, and — 


56 


ELECTA, 


It was a doleful picture ; she tried to shut her 
eyes to it, only some one, as Vail had done, was 
always saying something to remind her of it. No 
one could admire her or love her, because she was 
lame ; she could have done so many things if God 
had not made her lame. As it was, she must be 
like a turtle and live in a shell. Life was such a 
beautiful thing, and this world was such a beau- 
tiful world to live in for every one excepting her- 
self. The old clouds had shut themselves in 
around her with more than their usual darkness 
and heaviness since her latest disappointment. 
Other disappointments she had lived through and 
forgotten, but she never could forget this; she 
almost thought that she could not live through it. 

Up the lane, across the fields, and to the edge 
of the woods she went, walking slowly with her 
eyes upon the ground and the book about insects 
in her hand. She stood at the edge of the woods 
peering in; deep in its depths it was dark and 
cool, there were no people there to notice her, no 
people there for her to shrink from. She would 
not mind going away from home, if she might 
go to the woods and live there; but out in the 
world meant among people, and she hated people. 

“Good afternoon.” 

She was so absorbed in herself that she did not 
heed the salutation until it was repeated — 

“Good afternoon. Miss Electa.” 

A pair of black eyes were looking down at her 
from under a broad Panama hat. 


OUTSIDE OF HERSELF. 


67 


“ I missed you at home; I am glad to meet you.” 

“ Thank you,” she said shyly. 

“Are you going into the woods?” 

“Yes, sir, to stay forever,” she answered, laugh- 
ing at herself for saying such a thing to a stranger. 

“ Surely not because you are tired of The Bee- 
hive.” 

“ No,” drawing a long breath. 

“ Over a hundred and fifty years ago glass hives 
were invented; you must excuse me, but I wish 
that The Beehive were a glass hive.” 

“ What was the use of the glass hives ? ” 

“They were invented that the habits, that the 
lives of the bees might be studied ; now you think 
my wish impertinent, don’t you ? ” 

“ Not altogether.” 

The words of his prayer for her were almost on 
her lips ; had she dared she would have asked him 
what he had seen in her that he could understand 
her need, her burden, her desire. After her first 
glance into the rugged, shrewd, kindly face, he was 
not a strange stranger. If he had lingered an- 
other moment, she felt that she could have asked 
him; but he lifted his hat and passed on leaving 
her on the edge of the woods standing irresolute, 
not caring to go home, not caring to go further 
into the woods. She wondered if he were a min- 
ister; he did not wear a clerical vest and white 
tie like papa; he was grave and old, but he trod 
like a young man and his voice sounded more like 
Martyn’s than papa’s. 


68 


ELECTA, 


If he had but waited another moment, but an 
instant, she could have asked him how she might 
know, how she could know when God spoke to her; 
she was too shy to ask papa, or mamma, or Celia ; 
they were too near to her, too much in her life ; 
but this stranger could tell her and then go his 
way, he would never know any thing more about 
her; with all her morbid dread of strangers it 
would be easier to ask him this question than to 
ask any one who lived in her life. If he would turn 
she would motion to him, for she must know; she 
had been deceived once, she might always be de- 
ceived, if she could not surely know His voice, and 
she might never again come so near one who knew 
himself and who could tell her. Ah, there ! Yes, 
he was turning at last; he was stopping, he was 
standing still, looking up into a tree ; he was not 
very far away, he would hear if she called. But 
she had forgotten his name; she could not call 
“ Sir,” or “ Mister,” or “ Stranger.” She might lift 
her hand, but he was not looking towards her; 
her feet were riveted to the spot, she had no 
power to stir. And who would tell her if he 
did not? 

He moved to go on, he stooped to pick some- 
thing out of the dried leaves, and now he had 
found some ferns. With an aching, almost break- 
ing heart, she turned her face homewards ; it was 
something new to learn that out in the world she 
might find help that she had not courage to ask 
for at home among her own, that because people 


OUTSIDE OF HERSELF, 


59 


were strangers she might the more easily open her 
heart to them. 

“Papa,” asked Vail that evening, sitting on 
papa’s knee with both arms around his neck, 
“ what kind of a place is the world ? ” 

“Why, little son, the world is just any kind of a 
place that you please.” 

“Any kind I want?” 

“ Any kind you want.” 

Vail fixed his eyes, the loveliest eyes among the 
twelve, upon his father’s face. “How do you 
know ? ” he asked. 

“ When you are as old as I, you will know how I 
know.” 

“How many people are there in the world, 
papa ? ” 

“About fourteen hundred millions.” 

“ Have you seen them all ? ” 

“Not quite,” laughed papa. “I think that I 
don’t want to see them all. I own thirteen of 
them. I am satisfied.” 

Among them all, among fourteen hundred mil- 
lions, there was surely one who needed her ; some 
pair of wayworn feet that needed a pair of old 
slippers. Electa was not too sentimental to cling 
to her thought of the old slippers. The stranger 
was one among the fourteen hundred millions and 
she had permitted him to slip away from her; must 
she run after people ? But she had run away from 
him. Perhaps it was enough not to run away from 
people. She went upstairs early that evening, 


60 


ELECTA. 


while all the others were having a happy time in- 
doors and out of doors ; within the house was the 
sound of singing, and without the house laughter 
and the sound of the mallet upon the balls. Jen- 
nie Hood and several others had come to play cro- 
quet. Electa would not play croquet; she could 
not step like the others. Jennie Hood was wear- 
ing a new diamond ring, a cluster; Celia’s had 
been a solitaire. Celia was very pale to-night, but 
her voice had a brave ring in it that no one had 
ever heard before, and she was more than usually 
tender towards them all. For her sake Electa was 
glad that The Beehive was not built of glass ; for 
her own sake, for the stranger’s studying, she 
wished that it were. Martyn’s chamber was in 
the third story, under the eaves, the one window 
looked out into the top of a maple-tree. Electa 
chose it for a retreat to-night that she might be 
the more alone. Under the maple were the sound 
of laughter, little shouts of elation or of dismay, 
and the striking of the balls. Above it all and 
far away from it all, although she was younger 
than any of them excepting Trude, she felt old 
and burdened; burdened because she must go 
away from them all and because she did not know 
how to hear when God spoke. Could seventeen 
years bear any heavier burden ? But must she go? 
She knelt on the narrow strip of carpet under the 
window, resting both elbows upon the window- 
sill, and looked out into the green maple leaves. 
Jennie Hood must not go away from her pretty 


OUTSIDE OF HERSELF. 


61 


home. Lucy Blake was not forced to leave father 
and mother and brothers and sisters, and Susie 
Prentiss might stay at home and be as free as a 
butterfly, and Nan and Eobin and Trude and Mol- 
lie were as light-hearted as though Martyn and 
Arch and Trude did not have to be educated at 
all ; if God had not made her different from them 
she would have been down their among them as 
A light-hearted as they. In the night, while it was 
i! dark, she had made her vow, with no influence 

i. J 7 

^ upon her but God and her own heart and the 
darkness, and when the shining light came she 
thought that God had hearkened and registered it 
upon His book. She has promised God; she must 
keep her word. 

Still no one expected her to go, her decision 
would be like a bomb-shell dropped down among 
them, she could see mamma’s face, and hear papa’s 
incredulous laugh; and what a chattering there 
would be among the boys and girls ? How Vail 
would cling to her! Was her vow born of the 
stillness and darkness and the misleading light, 
born of her morbid fancy and her sympathy for 
Celia? Electa had a fashion of turning herself 
upside down and inside out. Every thing was un- 
changed, mamma did not look care-worn and papa 
had spoken about Martyn’s going to the seminary 
that very morning as if it were a plan already 
settled, and Trude had told the girls at the tea- 
table that she was going to Bethlehem to school 
in September. No one had said, “But these things 


62 


ELECTA, 


can’t be unless Electa goes away.” In the broad 
sunshine, with them all about her, her courage 
had oozed away, her vow seemed like an uncom- 
fortable dream, her self-denial became common- 
place, it did not savor at all of martyrdom. And 
then the light — God had not spoken to her ! 

Electa had many inspirations; one seized her at 
this instant; she sprang from her knees, almost 
snatched the Bible from the home-made table near 
the bed, then paused. Might she do it? Would 
it be right to shut her eyes and open the Bible and 
lay her finger upon the page, and if her finger 
touched the words, “And it came to pass,” to be- 
lieve that God would bring her vow to pass? 
When she was a little girl at the village school a 
child had confided to her that this was the way 
“to find out things.” She had tried it then, but 
had forgotten it until this time of sore need. Hes- 
itating, fearing, doubting, she held the book in her 
hand. Suppose her fingers should not touch “And 
it came to pass,” might she give up going ? Might 
her vow go for nothing? Would God release her, 
settle the question for her, and assure her that she 
was doing His will ? 

Nerving herself to bear whatever it should be, 
she closed her eyes, jerked the book open, and 
tremblingly laid the tip of her finger upon the 
open page. And now did she dare look? Would 
she find something to frighten her ? Her eyelids 
quivered, but would not unclose; with an effort 
she lifted them and gave a startled glance at the 


OUTSIDE OF HERSELF. 


63 


page, not stirring the tip of her finger. There it 
was, it must be, she saw the word “pass”; slowly- 
removing her finger she read, “And it shall come 
to pass.” That was stronger still, it meant more 
than “And it came to pass.” 

“And it shall come to pass ! ” It was a prophecy; 
she would accept it and go. Her fingers tightened 
over the book; the words were really there, in 
plain, unmistakable English; she could not be 
deceived as she had been deceived about the shin- 
ing light. God knew what she was about to do, 
He knew how vexed and worried and miserable 
she was, and He had let her finger rest upon these 
words ; the words occurred but once upon the two 
pages, a slight movement either way and her 
finger would have missed it; had He not guided 
her finger ? It could not be chance, she would try 
again and prove it; if it did not come that way 
again, she would be assured that God had moved 
her finger. 

Closing the book again, she stood still a moment 
with her eyes shut, afraid of God, afraid of being 
so near to Him, and somewhat afraid that He was 
not wholly pleased with the thing that she was 
doing. 

Again, again, and yet again she opened the 
Bible with closed eyes and laid the tip of her fin- 
ger upon the page; ten times she made the experi- 
ment, and not once again did her finger touch 
the charmed words. She could not be deceived in 
this; God hxxd spoken to her. He meant her to go. 


64 


ELECTA. 


And she would go, if it killed her. Joan of Arc 
did not lie down to sleep with more content after 
she had heard the “voices” than did poor little 
Electa after she believed that God had spoken to 
her. 

But we can believe things that are not true, you 
know. I do believe that God was speaking to ker, 
and in her mistaken doing, drawing her nearer to 
Himself, but I do not believe that He was bidding 
her go away from home. Afterward she learned 
what it was that God was speaking to her. We 
hear His voice, oftentimes, but we do not catch 
His words. 

“Mamma” she said the next morning, “may I 
go away ? I want to go somewhere.” 

Mamma was brushing Baby’s hair. 

“It will be very good for you; we will think 
about it, papa and I.” 

Only good for her ! It was very humiliating that 
after all her sacrifice, it would be good only for 
herself. 


III. 


WAITING. 

The Bible was becoming, it had already become 
a new thing to Electa; it was not a book, a 
printed book containing letters and words and 
chapters, it was not the story of olden times 
wherein God spoke His will to men, it was not 
even the Gospel according to Matthew, Mark, 
Luke, and John; it was the Good News according 
to herself, the Good News as the Holy Spirit 
brought it to herself; the Good News with all it 
meant to herself and as it was meant to herself 
and not to any one else. Her Bible was not 
Celia’s Bible or Nan’s or Mollie’s or Eobin’s or 
Martyn’s; it was her own Bible as not one of them 
could understand it. Celia would have looked 
grave, Mollie would have laughed, and Martyn 
would have frowned had they known how in her 
ignorance she had used the Bible as a heathen 
might use any “ charm ” that he possessed. 

“ God must have spoken to me,” Electa argued 
many times during the day; “if it had been chanco 
it would have come so every time.” And she so 
fully believed that God had spoken to her that 


66 


ELECTA. 


she would have persisted in going, contrary to 
the wishes and advice of every friend that she had 
in the world. She would have disobeyed, delib- 
erately and prayerfully, the command of father 
and mother. Electa was made of the stuff that 
martyrs are made of. 

Now that papa and mamma would talk it over, 
she felt that her fate was decided; she began to 
look at her home with homesick eyes, to imagine 
how the tea-table would appear with one absent, 
and if she would be missed at prayer, and if papa 
would pray for “ our absent daughter ” night and 
morning. Martyn, Arch, and Trude would be 
absent also; how strange that while the others 
were going because they would, she was going 
because she must. 

“ Celia wishes to go away awhile that she may 
earn money,” Mrs. Given said to Electa; “but I 
told her that you had spoken about going away, 
and that I couldn’t spare so many to go away at 
the same time. But you will not stay long; papa 
and I are casting about in our minds where to 
send you; you need a decided change.” 

Electa had not courage to say, “But I am going 
that I may earn money, I am not going to visit, 
or for a little while ; it is not to be a pleasure trip, 
it is the beginning of my life-work.” 

Whether or not it were a pleasure trip or her 
life-work, her going would keep Celia at home ; so 
much was gained at that instant; Electa had 
never felt so happy in her life ; none of the others 


WAITING, 


67 


had done this for Celia, she had done it herself, 
and Celia needed it to be done. 

“ Mamma, where do yon want to send me ? ” she 
asked quietly, with a tumult at her heart. 

“ Somewhere among our friends, where there is 
some excitement, and where you can be quiet 
when you choose. Celia will make a dress for 
you ; we will fix you up as nicely as we can. Pa- 
pa is sure that God will find for you just the com- 
panionship and changes that you need.” 

And when they were found, she must find the 
work and the money for herself ! 

She was going out like Abraham, at the com- 
mand of God, not knowing whither she would go. 
How did Abraham know that God was speaking 
to him ? he had not any Bible to find it in. How 
did people who did not understand the Bible dis- 
cover what God would have them do? Was there 
any other way in which God spoke to them ? 

In these summer days, while papa and mamma 
were deciding where it was best for Electa, the 
home child to be sent. Electa the home child, who 
dreaded more and more inexpressibly to be sent 
anywhere, passed all her spare hours — morning, 
noon, and night — in studying the Bible that she 
might learn how God had revealed His will to 
them of old time. First He gave a listening heart 
and then He spoke. She believed that she had 
the listening heart. I believe it, too. 

One afternoon, while sitting alone on a knoll 
under a maple in the front yard, a doubt came to 


68 


ELECTA. 


her; perhaps God had not spoken to her, perhaps 
she had no right to seek to know His will in such 
a manner; she had never read of any one doing 
such a thing, she would not dare tell any one that 
she had done it. 

In the book on the grass beside her was a torn 
piece of foolscap, there was a dull lead pencil in 
her pocket; she took pencil and paper and began 
to scribble. It was pretty penmanship despite the 
dull pencil. She wrote rapidly, tucking it con- 
fusedly into her pocket when Kobin stepped out 
on the piazza. At night when she was alone she 
unrolled it and read: 

“Waiting before Thee, Lord, 

Upon submissive knees, 

Waiting to hear Thy word. 

To know what Thou dost please ; 

What Thou wilt have me do 
In this sore and narrow strait. 

When I am hedged about 
With nothing to do but wait. 

I will not turn nor stir 
To follow my own self-will; 

I will wait till Thou dost speak, 

I will listen and be still. 

Then give me patience. Lord, 

To wait what Thou wilt say, 

If it but be Thy word, 

I will follow it any way.'' 

During this summer a stranger spoke of Electa 
as a quaint child. “^She is very old-fashioned,” 
was the reply ; “ as old-fashioned as Eachel or 
Kebecca. I met her in the wheat field not long 


WAITING. 


69 


ago; with her broad hat, her shy face, and long 
braids she reminded me of Ruth. The other girls 
are so up to the times, reading all the late books 
and dressing in the latest style that she does ap- 
pear quaint.” 

The life that she lived within herself was still 
more quaint ; papa and mamma thought that every 
day she grew more unlike the others. 

“ She must go away,” they said to each other, 
“ she must get shaken up, she must get outside of 
herself.” 

She did not live in The Beehive this summer, 
nor anywhere in the nineteenth century, but away 
back among the old heroes of the desert and in 
Canaan. The old-time stories were wells of living 
water in her weary land; she drank again and 
again and yet thirsted for more. Celia, the man- 
ager of the family, was not a reader; she read one 
weekly religious paper and one weekly newspaper 
to keep up to the times, but seldom gave more than 
a hasty glance at the late books about the house ; 
and yet it was Celia who instituted a course of 
reading among the girls this summer. She forced 
herself to read, that she might forget herself. 

Opening “Deerslayer” one afternoon — Arch had 
left it open upon the back piazza, — she lost herself 
in it; alter the restless days and wakeful nights it 
was a new experience to forget that she had some- 
thing to forget. This was the beginning of a 
course of Cooper. Alluding to it afterward, she 
called this summer her Cooper summer. 


70 


ELECTA. 


Not to be outdone by the sister who made no 
pretension to being well-read, Nan took up Shak- 
speare, and Mollie, Scott’s novels; Robin preferred 
Scott’s poems, and Trude asked Martyn to choose 
from Dickens for her summer reading. 

While it was to the others a Cooper summer, a 
Shakspeare summer, a Scott summer, a Dickens 
summer, it was to Electa an Old Testament sum- 
mer. Very rarely she opened the New Testament; 
not, indeed, until with a new longing she missed 
the companionship of Jesus Christ. “Dam lonely 
without Him,” she thought one day. “ I have been 
missing Him all summer.” 

At the tea-table the girls amused the younger 
children and rested papa and mamma by their 
bright talk of what they had been reading; Electa 
felt silent, she felt more silent than she seemed, for 
her listening eyes and appreciative questions were 
all the inspiration that the talkers needed, and no 
one noticed her pre-occupation. How could she 
talk about her own reading ? She could speak light- 
ly of Rowena and Rebecca, of Little Nell and Paul 
Dombey, of Deerslayer and Hetty, but how could 
she speak before them all of the stories that had 
moved her heart to tears? — of David asking and 
finding answer from God through the ephod, of 
Gideon and his fieece, of Samuel and Moses, of 
Rebecca and Samson’s mother, and all the others 
who had found God near enough to speak to 
them. 

“What is your ‘course of reading,’ daughter?” 


WAITING, 


71 


her father inquired one evening at the tea-table. 
“Is it Shakspeare, or Milton, or Mrs. Opie, or 
Jonathan Edwards?” 

She colored, hesitating, the truth choking her; 
she dared not say that she was not reading any 
thing, she was ashamed to say that she was read- 
ing only the Bible. 

“ Is it a secret ? ” inquired Arch, “ something 
too deep for our feeble understandings ? ” 

“ I suspect that it is nothing less than Hebrew,” 
laughed Eobin. 

“Not in the original, only an excellent trans- 
lation,” she answered in a relieved tone ; thankful 
for her escape; then chiding herself most unspar- 
ingly for her cowardice, not understanding that 
it was the sacredness of the study and her own 
deep personal interest in the answer to the ques- 
tion that she was seeking that gave her the shyness 
and sensitiveness. 

“ Follow it any way ! ” she repeated the words to 
herself night and day. God had premitted her to 
deceive herself. He had let her do a foolish, if not 
a wrong thing, in trying to discover His will in a 
a way not according to His will, and now would 
He punish her and not speak to her at all? 

If He did not bid her go, might she stay at 
home? 

But, no ; she must go, else Celia would have no 
excuse for staying. If she might die instead — 
she was not strong these summer days, she almost 
forgot that she was born of the will of God. 


72 


ELECTA. 


Oh, morbid child, with morbid fancies, this world 
is to you just what you are making it. To laugh- 
ing Robin, who loved God and every body else 
beside, and who never looked inside of herself to 
study herself, what a different world it was ! 

How lovely and wide and cool and full of happy 
household noises The Beehive was this summer ! 
As lovely as love and happiness could make it; 
this old, unpainted house, with shutters instead of 
blinds, with signs of decay from roof to foundation, 
with wistaria, honeysuckle, and even hop vines 
and blackberry bushes climbing over and up all 
the unsightly places in walls, roofs, or fences. 

Such a home to go away from ! Electa hugged 
every leaf to her heart, enwrapping herself more 
and more closely in all the home associations 
within and without. She did not love to be a 
martyr; she almost wished that Celia might know 
what she was giving up for her sake and taking 
up for her sake. These days must be lived through, 
these days of her first great sorrow; she went about 
her few household tasks like one dreaming, doing 
her work with her hands, with but one thought 
in her heart, the intense longing to know if God 
would have her go, and whither, and what the 
thing was that He would find for her to do. The 
shining light and the words that she had opened 
to in the Bible had not been the voice of God; 
she felt, without understanding the reason, that 
she had been doing wrong in thus seeking a sign 
from God; she did not dare again seek any sign. 


WAITING. 


73 


Abraham’s servant had sought, and signs had been 
granted to the faith of Gideon and Moses and 
David; angels had been sent from heaven to 
speak to men when they were in perplexity and 
doubt; they had spoken plainly, bidding them 
where to go, even walking with Peter and show- 
ing him the way. If an angel would come to her, 
how she would listen, listen and obey ! 

But in the study, as she searched among her 
father’s books, there was no rustle of wings ; in her 
own chamber, when upon her knees in prayer, 
there came no voice nor presence ; out in the sun- 
shine, the sky shone blue over her head, there was 
no parting among the clouds for an angel to come 
through. 

Nowhere in the Bible, nowhere in the world, 
nowhere from above, beneath, or around her, no- 
where from within herself could she discover how 
it was that God would speak to her. 

“ I’ll do the thing I know,” she decided at last, 
“and then perhaps I’ll know more.” 

This was in October; all the summer through 
she had fought with herself, she had studied the 
Bible, praying and struggling; she could do no 
more — only the thing she knew. God had not yet 
spoken to her so that she might understand. 


IV. 


TWO LETTEES. 

October was almost gone; Electa was glad to 
have it go; this summer had been a very unsat- 
isfactory summer to her, nothing had happened, 
no new thing in her outward life, excepting that 
she had confessed her faith in Christ at the fall 
Communion, and no new thing in her inward life, 
for she had failed in getting any sign from God, 
and no way was opened for her to go out into 
the world. 

Martyn had entered the theological seminary. 
Arch had gone to a mercantile college, and Trude 
was happy at boarding-school. The bills would 
all come in; those bills were much on Electa’s 
mind. Papa did not act as if they were much 
on his mind; but often his prayers kept Electa’s 
eyes full all prayer-time. 

“Thou hast always provided for us; I know 
that Thou wilt provide for us now,” he said the 
very morning that the letter came. But the let- 
ter did not come until after breakfast, and the 
talk at the breakfast-table had something to do 
with Electa’s decision. 


TWO LETTERS, 


75 


“ There’s a gypsy camp down the road a mile,” 
Ned announced at the breakfast-table. “ They sell 
horses, tell fortunes, and sleep out of doors.” 

“What is ‘tell fortunes’?” asked Vail. 

“Tell things that’s going to happen,” returned 
Ned with the wisdom of two years seniority. 

“Tell fortunes ! ” flashed through Electa’s brain. 
“ I wonder if they could tell me where to go and 
what to do! Saul went to the witch of Endor, 
but that was because God refused to speak to 
him — neither by dreams, nor by Urim, nor by 
prophet.” 

“Electa looks serious,” said Nan. “Would you 
like to consult the gypsies, and know if you are 
going on a journey and who you will marry and 
all such things ? ” 

“I’d like to know if I am going on a journey,” 
she answered, coloring almost painfully. 

“God knows, daughter,” said papa; “that is 
His secret, and He will tell you when the time 
comes.” 

“He will tell you in time for you to pack up,” 
added Vail; “won’t that be time enough?” 

“Jennie Hood had hers told,” Ned continued. 

Celia raised her eyes, with a flash in them. 

“And the gypsy said that she would marry a 
rich man and have plenty of trouble; and Jennie 
laughed and said that was true; and the gypsy 
guessed it by the handsome ring on her engage- 
ment finger ; and of course she would have trouble, 
for Halstead Seymour is as wild as can be. Celia, 


76 


ELECTA. 


I thought that Halstead Seymour liked to come 
to see you?" 

“ What else about the gypsy encampment ? " 
asked Mollie quickly, not glancing toward Celia. 

“ Oh, it is splendid ; do you want to go and see ? 
There’s a sign on the fence with, ‘ Power from on 
High,’ painted on it.” 

“Does that mean that God tells the gypsies 
what’s going to happen, papa?” asked Vail. 

“ God never tells any one what is going to hap- 
pen, my little boy, unless He has a special reason 
for making it known to him ; He made the future 
known in olden times to His prophets, but nowa- 
days we must wait till God brings events to pass. 
That sign is most wicked and blasphemous ; I will 
go out after breakfast and see what can be done 
about it.” 

“Then how can people know what’s going to 
happen ? ” inquired Ned. 

“They can not know; they do not need to know; 
only God knows what is laid up for us in to-mor- 
row. To-day He is giving to us; to-morrow is His 
own to keep until to-morrow comes.” 

“Don’t you know any thing that’s going to hap- 
pen to us ? ” persisted Vail. 

“Yes; I could tell you all some of the things 
that are laid up for you.” 

“Oh, do, do,” cried Eobin eagerly; “tell us our 
fortunes, papa; tell us if we shall have the things 
that we wish for most.” 

“ I can tell you that, too,” he answered gravely. 


TWO LETTERS, 


77 


“Well, begin with Celia, then,” said Nan; “don’t 
tell mamma’s, because she has all hers.” 

“Mamma found a part of hers at Patty West- 
lake’s twenty-seven years ago this summer; she 
went to comfort the old ladies and found me and 
comforted me.” 

“ Did she know that she was going to get you 
there ? ” asked Vail. 

“No, nobody knew; there was no prophet to tell 
us. But when God has the care of us, each step 
means something. The mistake of a word in the 
direction of a letter snatched a king out of the 
jaws of death once upon a time. That mistake 
was a part of that king’s fortune.” 

“And the man that wrote the letter made a part of 
the king’s fortune,” said Vail; “perhaps we’ll get a 
letter to-day that will be a part of some one’s fortune.” 

“Mamma’s fortune is in thirteen parts,” said 
Electa, “ and she is a part of thirteen fortunes.” 

“ You are each a part of each other’s fortune,” 
said papa; “ and probably each a part of some one’s 
fortune whom you have yet to meet.” 

“Send us to Patty Westlake’s, mamma,” said 
Eobin. 

“I am anxious about the old ladies,” returned 
mamma; “ my last letter has remained unanswered 
for several months. They live so alone that they 
could both die and no one be the wiser for some 
time. They keep the blinds closed, and the house 
is surrounded by a high brick wall that their 
father built, and the neighbors never see them; 


78 


ELECTA. 


the butcher, the baker, and the grocer go around 
to the back door once every two weeks. Jane 
gives the orders through a half opened door; the 
minister calls sometimes, and once in a great while 
is granted admission; the neighbors are wearied 
with trying to be kind to them ; they have lived 
that hermit life for over thirty years ! ” 

“ I wouldn’t go to see them for the world,” ex- 
claimed Eobin, “not even to find somebody like 
you, papa.” 

“ I would,” said Electa. 

“They love each other, but they hate the world,” 
continued mamma; “they both had a disappoint- 
ment when they were young, and they have hated 
the world ever since ; their father died thirty years 
since; Patty was born in that house, she has lived 
there eighty-four years.” 

“I like this house better,” said Vail; “don’t go, 
Electa.” 

“ I don’t expect to; but I covld if I had to.” 

“ But, papa, you haven’t told our fortunes,” said 
Nan. 

“Then I will; listen, all of you; you may all have 
blessed fortunes; if you are willing and obedient, 
you will be blessed and be made a blessing in this 
world and in the next world ; but if you are un- 
willing and disobedient, you will be cursed and be 
made a cursing. You may all have what you want 
most, if you want something that is according to 
God’s will, and ask Him for it in the spirit and in 
the name of Jesus.” 


TIVO LETTERS. 


79 


“But suppose that it isn’t according to His will?” 
said Mollie. 

“ Then the worst thing that can befall you is to 
have it.” 

Electa shivered at her father’s words and tone. It 
became ever afterward a terrible thing to her for one 
to have a thing that God did not wish them to have. 

“But, papa,” said Nan, “you don’t know tho 
things that will happen to us.” 

“ I know that they will be things of your own 
making, things of your own choosing, things of 
your own seeking, many of them things that you 
may hinder if you will. To-morrow is to-day’s 
future, what you hoped for, prayed for, worked for, 
what you did not hinder yesterday is happening to- 
day. The command was once, ‘ Sanctify yourselves 
— to-morrow the Lord will do wonders.’ Now, chil- 
dren all, if you wish your to-morrow to be wonder- 
ful, sanctify yourselves to-day.” 

“ How ? ” asked Electa eagerly. 

She was longing for a wonderful to-morrow. 

“By setting yourself apart from all that He 
hates and to all that He loves, receive His Holy 
Spirit; He is ready to give it; be willing and obedi- 
ent, and then God can give you all He will, and do 
in you and do for you all He will. And, then,” 
said papa, rising and lifting his hands in benedic- 
tion as he looked around upon the bright, young, 
eager faces, “what a wonderful fortune you will 
have, all my children ! ” 

“I will take it,” said Electa to herself as sol- 


80 


ELECTA, 


emnly as though she were speaking to God. She 
slipped her napkin into its ring, feeling as though 
her wonderful future had already begun. 

That morning a letter came to The Beehive that 
had been written three months since; Jane West- 
lake had written it one morning intending to give 
it, to be mailed, to the butcher the next time that 
he called, and had laid it away in the china closet 
on the top shelf behind a platter, and had wondered 
all the three months why the answer had not been 
received. Three mornings since, having occasion 
to go to the china closet, by some law of association 
the forgotten letter was brought to her mind, and 
she had taken it to the post-office herself 

The girls and Vail huddled around their mother, 
while she read it aloud; it was written in a tine, 
cramped hand, and ran thus : 

“ My Dear Cousin: — I take my pen in hand to in- 
form you that Patty and I are as well as can be ex- 
pected, and hope that you and all your family are 
the same. 

“ Patty is getting queer-like, and is too great a 
burden for me alone, and I want one of your girls 
to come and help me ; I want one that is patient and 
pleasant in her ways and handy, and I will give ' 
her one hundred dollars if she will stay six months 
Avithout going home. My respects to the minister 
and all your family. 

“ Yours respectfully, 

“Jane Ann Westlake.” 


TIVO LETTERS. 


81 


“Well, I must say ! ” exclaimed Nan. 

“ If that isn’t cool ! ” cried Mollie. 

“ She had better take me,” said Eobin, “ I am so 
patient and handy ! ” 

“ One hundred dollars for six months in that dun- 
geon ! ” said Celia. 

“They never light a lamp, they go to bed be- 
fore dark, and, oh, the rats!” said Mollie. “I 
stayed there a week once, and came home to 
die. I wouldn’t stay there for a hundred dollars 
a day.” 

“ The poor old bodies need a young life in the 
house,”' said mamma, “think what one of you girls 
would be to them.” 

“Can I go?” asked Vail, looking troubled; “can’t 
I go and be a blessing to them ? ” 

“No, you blessed boy!” said Celia; “we want 
you at home.” 

Electa was standing at her mother’s side with 
her hand upon her shoulder. 

“I’ll go, mamma,” she said quietly. 

“And go to bed in the dark, and be eaten up by 
the rats! ” exclaimed Vail. “Oh, ’Lecta, how can 
you stand it ? ” 

“You are the last one to go,” said Nan, “any of 
us can better go than you.” 

“Think of her in that dungeon, Celia!” said 
Robin; “no, our little one isn’t going; we’ll send 
somebody stout, and brave, and strong.” 

“ But I want to go,” answered Electa decidedly. 
“ I have been getting ready to go all summer.” 


82 


ELECTA. 


“Did you know you were going?” asked Vail, 
“ did somebody tell you ? ” 

“ She doesn’t know it yet,” said Celia. 

“ I’d think of Baby going as soon as you,” said 
Mollie. 

“ But I want to go,” she persisted. 

“You haven’t tried it yet, child,” said her mother; 
“ if we let you go, you must promise to come home 
if you are too homesick. I can not feel that this 
is the place meant for you, but it may be, after 
all.” 

“And you may find something wonderful,” con- 
soled Eobin, “wonderful things don’t seem to come 
to The Beehive; we must all go out into the world 
to seek our fortune.” 

“ Isn’t Mr. Eyle somewhere near there ? ” asked 
Celia. 

“ I would feel safe to have her near him,” said 
mamma. 

“ She don’t deserve it,” said Mollie; “she wouldn’t 
come in to see him, and she ran away from him.” 

“He is settled at Swanzey, three miles from 
Cousin Jane’s,” said mamma; “he called there last 
summer, but was not admitted.” 

“ Is their post-office at Swanzey ? ” asked Electa. 

“No, it is two miles nearer, at Walnut Grove; 
their father used to attend church at Walnut Grove, 
but they never go anywhere,” answered mamma. 

“0, Electa, don’t go!” cried Vail, “suppose it 
kills you. Do you like the high walls ? And the 
rats I ” 


TPVO LETTERS, 


83 


“Perhaps they need me,” said Electa slowly, 
“they need somebody, and perhaps it’s me.” 

“You’ll be a martyr if you go,” said Vail. 

“ Or a missionary,” added Mollie. 

“ What do you want to go for ? ” asked Nan 
impatiently. 

“She hasn’t gone yet,” said mamma; “one of 
you girls write to-day; her letter is three months 
old—” 

“ It isn’t three months old on the envelope,” said 
Electa taking the coarse yellow envelope from her 
mother’s hand. “ Are they very poor, mamma ? ” 

“Not at all poor, they have a good income, 
larger than papa’s salary, and they own the house 
and land; the income dies with them, I believe; 
their own savings must amount to something by 
this time — ” 

“Now I know what they want somebody for,” 
cried Mollie. “ Electa, you will be an heiress.” 

“Can they give the house and land away?” 
asked Vail. “ I want Electa to have that.” 

“ Yes; Patty owns the house and land.” 

“I’m sorry I know about that,” said Electa 
“but perhaps they may not like me; I don’t want 
to go for reward.” 

“You can give them to me,” suggested Vail. 
“ Will you. Electa ? ” 

“ Suppose we forget that they have money,” said 
mamma, “ and think of them as two poor, unhappy 
disciples of our Lord, who need a little of His sun- 
shine; they have wilfully thrown away their op- 


84 


ELECTA, 


portunities and blessings, and now in their child- 
less old age they long for a child in the house. I 
confess that I don’t want to spare any of mine.” 

“ Perhaps Jennie Hood would go, or Susie Pren- 
tiss,” suggested Vail. 

“We might find a homeless and motherless girl 
who would count that home a thought of God for 
her,” said mamma, “ one who needs them as much 
as they need her.” 

“Perhaps they wouldn’t like a stranger,” said 
Celia, “ they may want some one near of kin, al- 
though they have never seen her.” 

“1 want to go,” said Electa, “perhaps they need 
just me.” 

“Perhaps they do, and so do I,” said mamma, 
drawing the fiushed face down to her lips. “ Think 
over it, child; pray over it, and papa and I will do 
the same. One of you write to-day and say that 
we will consider the matter.” 

“ ril write,” said Electa, “ and may I say if any 
ones goes that I am the one ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” laughed Kobin, “ the house and 
land and the rats almost move me to go.” 

“ I won’t go,” said Nan. 

“Neither will I,” said Mollie, “and Celia shan’t.” 

“I’ll go with Electa,” said Vail; “may I, mam- 
ma?” 

“No, dear; you must live in the sunshine.” 

“ So must Electa,” said he. 

“ Electa can find enough for her, but not enough 
for two,” said Mollie. 


TWO LETTERS. 


85 


“May I do as I like with the money?” asked 
Electa eagerly. 

“I think that you will have earned it, child,” 
said Celia. 

“ May I, mamma ? ” asked Electa. 

“Yes, just as you like,” said mamma; “but, oh, 
my little daughter, how can I let you go ? ” 

“ That is your part of the giving,” said Celia. 

“I feel very selfish, mamma,” she added. “I 
want to stay home near you.” 

“ I am very selfish,” said mamma, “ I want you 
all near me, my little flock.” 

“Are all their children dead?” asked Vail. 

“ Children dead,” echoed Guy, climbing into his 
mother’s lap. 

“No; they never had any; their mother died 
seventy years ago, when they were both little girls ; 
they were wild, gay girls, fond of society, and their 
father let them have their own way ; that old brick 
house used to be full of light from attic to base- 
ment; but Patty met with a disappointment that 
soured her towards all mankind, and Jane felt in 
all things, with her sister ; so they shut themselves 
up years and years ago, and now, poor things, 
their life is gone and all their blessed opportuni- 
ties. They were cousins of my mother. She vis- 
ited the old house when it was alive. It is full 
of old things. Electa, if that will comfort you 
any.” 

“ I would rather find some young things in it,” 
said Electa. 


86 


ELECTA. 


“You will not find any books,” said Celia. 

“ ril take all my favorites, and perhaps I’ll write 
a book myself,” returned Electa lightly. 

“ If you decide to go — and I don’t know what 
to hope about it,” said mamma, “I’ll write my- 
self to Mr. Eyle ; I would like to have you under 
his guardianship.” 

“Do you know what you will do with your 
money?” asked Vail; “whisper it to me, I’ll 
never tell.” 

“No, it is my own secret. Let me see how long 
I must stay if I go the last day of October! No- 
vember, December, January, February, March, 
April! Oh, deary, deary me! I shan’t see you 
all till the first of May. Will you write each of 
you once a week? Promise, Celia.” 

“Yes, I promise.” 

“You, Nan?” 

“Yes, I promise.’” 

“And you, Mollie?” 

“ Yes, I promise.” 

“Not all in one sheet, but four separate letters! 
Do you promise, Kobin ? ” 

“Yes, I promise, too.” 

“ And mamma once in a while ? ” 

“Yes, dear, you shall be kept in letters. Arch 
and Martyn and Trude will not forget you, either.” 

“ Four days every week I shall certainly have 
a letter ! Oh,” with a long breath, “ how I shall 
look forward to the mail. It will keep me alive.” 

“ I will ask Mr. Ryle to see that you get your 


TWO LETTERS, 


87 


letters!” said mamma. “Oh, child, what a win- 
ter it will be to you.” 

“She isn’t gone yet,” cried Vail, clinging to 
her; “I need you, ’Lecta.” 

“ What are you going for ? ” asked Guy. 

Electa wondered if she knew herself; to help 
Trude, to keep Celia at home, and because the 
old ladies needed her were all the reasons that 
presented themselves withoiit seeking for them. 

“What for? Oh, because I want to.” 

“Think about it, and pray about it,” mamma 
had said; she would do that with all her mind 
and heart. She must decide for herself, no one 
would help her decide. She wrote a long letter 
to Cousin Jane; it was easy to write herself out 
to her, because she had never seen her and there- 
fore did not feel shy with her. Cousin Jane was 
like some one in a book; not as real as some 
people in books were to her. She could not 
show the letter to any one, it was too full of 
herself It satisfied her sense of justice that Cous- 
in Jane should know all about herself before she 
engaged her. She felt that she was to work for 
money, that she must satisfy her employer and 
work for wages. It would have been a very dif- 
ferent letter had she known that other eyes be- 
side Jane’s and Patty’s would see it; she forgot 
that she was writing for old eyes, eyes unused to 
the later style of penmanship. 

“ How very beautiful,” Mr. Eyle exclaimed when 
Miss Jane handed him the letter and asked him 


88 


ELECTA, 


to read it aloud. And this is the long letter that 
Mr. Ryle read aloud to the old ladies, and then 
remembered to tell his blind mother about it that 
evening. 

“ Tht Beehive^ Oct 17, 18 — . 

“My Dear Cousin Jane: — Your letter is dated 
three months ago, so I know that you were think- 
ing about one of us then, and it was about that 
time that I began to wish to go somewhere. The 
other girls have decided that they can not accept 
your offer, so if any one does accept it, it will be 
I. As papa and mamma need some time to think 
about it and pray about it, I can not give you 
their decision to-day. I shall think about it and 
pray about it, too. It would be very good for you 
if Celia could come to you ; she is always bright 
(which I am not), and her voice sounds as if she 
were never worried about any thing. But mamma 
and the girls can not live without her, for next 
to mamma, she is the head of the house. She is 
our other mother. It would do you good just to 
feel that she was in the house. Nan comes next 
(her real name is Anna). I wish that you could 
have her ; she is pretty (which I am not), and she 
likes to make herself look pretty. She talks a 
great deal of nonsense and would keep you laugh- 
ing, andjshe is as sweet as trailing arbutus, j She 
doesn’t want to leave home, she can’t be spared; 
Howard Drane comes twice a week to see her, 
and, of course, she can’t go far away from him. 
He is a farmer and the leader of our choir. Nan 


TIVO LETTERS. 


89 


wants to marry a senator, so Howard says that 
he will try to be one. I like to tell you about 
the girls, because your heart must ache so to know 
about girls. Papa calls us a bouquet; Celia, he 
calls tansy, Nan is a white rose, Mollie is helio- 
trope, Kobin is an apple blossom. Trade is rose- 
geranium, and I am a white pink. 

“ I wonder if you love flowers and would let me 
have a flower garden? But, oh, I forgot, it will 
be winter. I would be so much obliged if you 
would let me have some plants. In winter our 
sitting-room is almost a conservatory, and I should 
miss it so much. Mollie and Martyn are twins; 
Martyn is at the seminary studying to be a min- 
ister, and Mollie is to keep house for him some 
day. Mollie is such a darling (which I am not), 
and you would so love to have her. I am sorry 
for your sakes that there is no one to come but 
me. And Eobin is just like a robin (her real name 
is Grace), she laughs and says sweet things all 
day long, and never gets anxious about herself as 
1 do about myself. But she has been a Christian 
longer than I have. I only joined the Church this 
fall. I was afraid to before ; I am very afraid of 
things. Trude has gone to Bethlehem to school, 
so of course she couldn’t come if she wanted to. 
She is two years younger than I am. She is fif- 
teen. Eobin is two years older than I am. She 
is nineteen. Mollie is twenty-one. Nan is twenty- 
three, and Celia is twenty-five. I know that you 
would like to have some one older than I. It will 


90 


ELECTA. 


take me a long time to grow up. Papa says that 
I am more of a child than Triide (her name is 
Gertrude ). My name is Electa. ^ that_ means chosen. 
Isn’t it beautiful? I want to be chosen. BuTper- 
haps you will not choose me. If you do not, 
mamma may find some one in the village that you 
would like better. I hope that you have a melo- 
deon or an organ, for I shall be very homesick 
without music. I haven’t told you about the boys, 
because I suppose that you don’t care for boys. 
Our boys are as lovely as girls, though. 

“Arch is fourteen (his real name is Archibald); 
he has gone away to learn to do business. Vail is 
nine (his real name is John Vail). I wish that you 
could see him. You would want him if you could 
see him. He has the loveliest eyes with the loveliest 
long lashes, and he beats us all in playing games, 
and when he sings his voice is as rich and full as 
an organ. You would wonder at that if you could 
see him, for he is so short and slight that Mr. Ryle 
(he is a minister near you) thought that he was 
only seven. He never was strong, and he is more 
of a baby than Guy, who is five. Ned is eleven 
(his real name is Jonathan Edwards), and he is a 
bundle of fun. And then there’s the baby. We 
call him Baby, but his real name is Wilberforce. 
I hope that it doesn’t make you lonesome to hear 
about us all ; I wish that you had a house full of 
boys and girls. 

“ I shall try not to be homesick, because I 
want a hundred dollars very much. Mamma 


TWO LETTERS, 


91 


says that I may do just what I please with it. 
You needn’t fear that I shall waste it. I don’t 
think that I am so very handy, but I do like 
to take care of sick people; I often go to see 
sick people and old people; there’s a bed-ridden 
woman in the village, and an old man ninety- 
three, and a crippled child, in the village that I 
visit very often. If I owned your house, I would 
open all the blinds and let the sunshine in, and 
then bring all the sick children that I could find 
into it, all the lame ones especially. I think that 
I ought to tell you that I am lame ; so, now per- 
haps you will not want me. 1 can go up and 
down stairs pretty fast, though. I don’t use 
crutches. I am not so lame as that. Don’t be 
afraid of wounding my feelings by saying that you 
would prefer to have some one else, for I should 
think you would. I would if I were you. Per- 
haps Susie Prentiss can come, her mother is a 
widow and works hard, and they have a wild, 
lazy, big brother to take care of Don’t you want 
two girls ? I should think that you would want 
six. How have you lived so long without any girls ? 

“ I want to go to church every Sunday, but I 
don’t know how I can walk two miles, or even one 
through the snow ; and down there in Massachusetts 
it is colder than it is here. I want to go to Mr. 
Eyle’s church. I have never seen him, but I heard 
him pray once ; he prayed for me, and the prayer 
is being answered. And I must go to the post- 
office every day, for I shall certainly die without 


92 


ELECTA. 


my letters. And I want some one to sleep in the 
room next to mine; I never do sleep alone, and I 
don’t know what I shall do about that. I don’t 
know what I shall do about a good many things. 

“ I am not brave. I am afraid that you will not 
like me. Even if you don’t, I am glad that I have 
written this letter. If you don’t like me and I 
don’t come, I will write to you once in a while and 
tell you about things. I will tell you about the 
world we live in, it is such a full, happy world, 
and it makes me so sorry for your shut-up, silent 
house. I will certainly come if you need me, and 
do the best I can, although I am not Celia nor 
Nan nor Mollie nor Trude, but only 

“ Electa.” 

She put the letter into the envelope without 
looking over it, sealed and stamped it, and placed 
it on the sitting-room mantel, behind a vase of 
wild flowers. All through the day she glanced 
towards it; how much it meant to her no human 
being could understand. If she might only open 
the Bible and And written there in plain English 
letters, “ Go to Cousin Jane’s,” or “ Do not go to 
Cousin Jane’s,” how relieved and satisfied she 
would be! But then the Bible would be a very 
queer Bible; that text would mean something for 
her, and for no one beside; she could not expect 
God to write a Bible only for her. But oh, how 
she did wish that He would I How easy and safe 
it would be to open the Bible — her Bible — in the 


TWO LETTERS. 


93 


morning and find her day all mapped out for her ; 
to find every thing, as plain as — 

“Rise at six. 

“Put on a blue cambric wrapper. 

“ Talk to papa before breakfast. 

“Talk about books or people at the breakfast- 
table. 

“ Put your room in order. 

“ Write in your journal. 

“ Amuse Vail. 

“ Call on some sick person. 

“ Sew for mamma. 

“ Dust the study.” 

And so through every hour of the day she would 
know just what to do; and if she were always obey- 
ing, she never could be disobeying. 

God could speak to her as plainly as that. He 
was so merciful and tender-hearted, and so anxious 
for her to do right, that it did seem queer that He 
had not made the right thing plainer. 

Papa never seemed troubled; did he always 
know what to do ? 

Six months, six weary, dreary months ! Not 
only to be away from them all, but to be in such 
a place, a prison, a tomb, with no one that loved 
her close by. 

“ Mamma,” she said, finding her mother alone in 
the back porch, “ mamma, what shall I do ? ” 

“You must decide for yourself, my dear.” 

“ Won’t you help me ? ” 

“No.” 


94 


ELECTA. 


“ Talk it over to me.” 

“ I think that yon are capable of talking it over 
to yourself.” 

“ Do you think it right for me to go ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Do you think it right for me not to go ? ” 
“Yes.” 

“Isn’t one thing more right than the other? ” 
“One course is more unselfish than the other.” 
“ I know which is the unselfish course,” sighed 
Electa ; “ it isn’t as bad as leaving heaven to come 
down to the earth, is it ? ” 

“Not quite,” said Mrs. Given, smiling; “this is 
an opportunity for you to do a self-denying thing ; 
you may have your choice.” 

“ Who gives me the choice ? ” questioned Electa 
quickly. 

“ Who gives us all our choices every day ? ” 

“ Mamma, I don’t mean to be wicked, but I do 
wish that He hadn’t given me this choice ? ” 

“ Are you praying ‘ may Thy will be undone ? ’ ” 
“Oh, no, no!” she exclaimed earnestly; “but, 
mamma, the others do not think that they have a 
choice.” 

“ Then why do you ? ” 

“I can’t help it; I must, I have to,” Electa said 
energetically. 

“Then, child, choose.” 

“Perhaps papa will decide for me.” 

“ Ask him, I have just been talking to him about 


it.’ 


TWO LETTERS, 


95 


Papa was in the study. Electa opened the door, 
and stood full five minutes on the threshold be- 
fore he became aware of her presence. 

“Well, daughter,” he said, looking up. 

“Papa, do you think I am the one to go to 
Cousin Jane’s to do them good? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ I don’t know, either.” 

“ Can’t you find out ? ” 

“No, sir; there isn’t any way.” 

“ Then it is not required of you,” replied her fa- 
ther, opening another book. 

“ Papa, why won’t you help me decide? ” 
“Yesterday — come sit on my knee — ” 

Electa was not yet too big a girl to nestle in her 
father’s arms like a baby; he smoothed her hair 
and kissed her forehead, she crept closer, hiding 
her head on his shoulder. 

“Yesterday I called upon Mrs. Tate; they keep 
summer boarders. On the piazza sat a lady doing 
nothing seemingly but watch a handsome, three- 
year-old boy who was playing on the piazza; on 
the upper step of the piazza sat a trim Irish girl, 
she was doing nothing beside watch this boy. If 
he ventured near the edge of the piazza four hands 
were outstretched to hold him back; he was not 
allowed to descend the steps alone, or to walk down 
the path alone ; they did not allow him to walk the 
length of the hall unless one of them were close 
beside him.” 

“Was he very sick ? ” 


96 


ELECTA. 


“ No." 

“Nor lame?" 

“No." 

“ He was blind, then." 

“ He is the handsomest child I ever saw, in per- 
fect health, perfectly developed; he spoke to me 
with the air of a little prince." 

“ Then what was the matter with him ? " 

“The matter was with his mother. In all his 
life he has never waited upon himself or taken one 
step by himself or decided any thing for himself. 
His mother is afraid that he will get hurt." 

“Your children will never be like that, papa." said 
Electa, raising her head to look at him and smile. 

“You desire to be. But God isn’t willing. Mam- 
ma and I are not willing." 

“ But you can advise me, papa," she pleaded. 

“ I advise you to think about it and pray about 
it; use your knowledge, your reason, your faith, 
asking God to move you, not only to will but to do 
His good pleasure.” 

She lay back again with her head on his shoulder 
and both arms around his neck. For six long 
months she could not sit in her father’s lap ! 

“ I should not choose such a home for you, daugh- 
ter; I am not wise enough to choose a home like 
that for you. Any day you are at liberty to return, 
you know." 

“ I’ll stay it out if I go," she said decidedly. 

“ Perhaps you will, perhaps you will not. You 
will do as God bids you." 


TH^O LETTERS, 


97 


“That’s just it He doesn’t seem to bid me.” 

“ ‘ I was in prison and ye came unto Me.’ They 
are in a prison of their own building, they have 
barred themselves in.” 

She kissed him slowly, loosened her arms, arose, 
and went out. She had decided to go. She had 
decided to go, if they would receive her. She de- 
cided with the tears chasing each other down her 
cheeks. She could do this hard thing for the sake 
of Jesus; she could not do it for them, nor for 
Trude. Those words — she found them and read 
them again and again: “/ icas in prison and ye 
came unto Jfe.” They were better, oh, how much 
better than, “ Go to Cousin Jane’s.” 

It might be that this Bible was just for her, if she 
could receive it. But she would not announce her 
decision until Cousin Jane had replied to her letter. 

Ned took her letter to the post-ofHce that after- 
noon, and with the pile of letters that he brought 
back was one that raised more of a commotion than 
Cousin Jane’s had done. 

Again the girls huddled around their mother to 
listen while she read it aloud. This letter was writ- 
ten in a stylish, running hand upon perfumed paper 
stamped with a monogram in crimson and gold. 
The words were few, but most cordial. Could Cousin 
Henrietta part with one of her girls for the winter ? 
They were planning to spend the winter at a ho- 
tel in Washington, and since Netta’s marriage 
and departure for Europe they were so heart- 
broken that they must have another daughter, 


98 


ELECTA, 


they could not live without a girl about them. If 
Cousin Henrietta would not take it amiss, they 
would prefer to furnish her wardrobe and supply 
her spending-money as well as to take care of all 
other expenses, and then would consider them- 
selves indebted to her. 

“ Oh, how splendid ! ” shouted Kobin, clapping 
her hands. 

“ It’s just too delightful ! ” cried Mollie, catching 
Nan and beginning to dance around with her. 

“We’ll all go — every one of us,” said Nan. 

“I won’t,” said Celia. “ I know that she doesn’t 
want me.” 

“She’s a lovely woman,” said Mrs. Given; “I 
can trust any of my girls with Cousin Jennie.” 

“ I won’t go,” said Electa. 

“ And Trude can’t,” said Robin ; “ we three will 
decide among ourselves.” 

“I think that she has chosen,” said mamma, 
turning the page. 

“ Oh, isn’t it I ? ” cried Mollie. 

“ Or I ? ” repeated Nan. 

“ I know it is I,” said Robin ; “ she said that she 
liked to hear me sing.” 

“ She said that she liked to look at me,” laughed 
Nan. 

“ She said that I always reminded her of Netta,” 
said Mollie. 

“I expect that it is Electa,” declared Robin; “it 
is always the youngest in story-books. Tell us, 
mamma, we will bear it.” 


TIVO LETTERS, 


99 


“In one day I am asked to give up two of my 
flock,” said mamma; “suppose that I will not let 
any of you go ? ” 

“I know you will, you dear, blessed, beautiful 
mamma,” cried Robin; “not to Cousin Jane’s of 
course, but it is different to go with Cousin Jen- 
nie. I hope that she has chosen me, for then it 
will not be selfish for me to go.” 

“ Of course it won’t be,” said Nan; “ we wouldn’t 
go unless we were chosen. You dear, provoking 
mamma, how you prolong our agony! Is it the 
youngest and fairest and sweetest ? Is it Cinder- 
ella? Is it Electa, our down-trodden, oppressed 
Electa, who will marry a prince and ride over all 
our heads ? ” 

“Would you like to go?” asked Vail, squeezing 
himself in among them. 

“With Cousin Jennie? Yes, I think I would,” 
said Electa, thinking of the shut-up house and the 
quiet old ladies. 

“ Is it Electa ? ” asked Robin nervously. 

“No, it isn’t Electa,” answered mamma. 

“Is it I?” queried Celia, laughing. “I would 
like to see what can take me away from The Bee- 
hive iliis winter 1 ” 

“It isn’t Celia,” said mamma, “it isn’t Nan — ” 

Nan colored and tried to laugh. 

“ It isn’t Trude — it isn’t Mollie — ” 

“ Then it is I. It is I! ” cried Robin, seizing 
Vail and dancing him around the room. 

“ 0, rare and happy fortune that cometh thus to 


100 


ELECTA, 


me — do go on, girls! I know it isn’t selfish in 
me, for if I am chosen the rest of you wouldn’t go 
for any thing. And I didn’t choose myself. I 
never thought of such a thing. I never thought 
of such a thing happening to me.” 

“ Don’t you want time to think ? ” asked Electa. 

“I have thought, I am thinking now, I am 
thinking all the time. Won’t I write you the love- 
liest, longest letters ? Let me see the letter, mam- 
ma. Shall I answer it ? ” 

“We will talk to papa first.” 

“He will let me decide, I know; he always does 
when it is a thing like this — between two right 
things, he always lets us decide. And this is so 
beautiful and right. Mamma, don’t you see that 
the world can’t do without your girls ? ” 

“Who’ll be left?” asked Vail gravely. 

“Plenty,” said Eobin, “only — let me see — Arch 
and Martyn and Trude and Electa and I gone — 
only five, not half of us.” 

“Perhaps we’ll have a letter to-morrow for some- 
body else to go,” said Vail. “1 won’t go, any- 
where, that’s decided. Nobody shall get me away 
from this Beehive.” 

Electa echoed the words to herself: “Nobody 
shall get me away from this Beehive.” That night 
she lay awake thinking of the winter days and 
winter nights that were coming; not only to miss 
them all, but to miss the talkative breakfast times, 
and the gathering together at tea-time when each 
had a story of the day’s experience to relate, or a 


TWO LETTERS. 


101 


question to ask, or a bit of news about somebody, 
and then the bright ending to the bright day, the 
fire on the sitting-room hearth, and games and 
stories, and reading aloud, and singing, and prayer- 
time, and good-night kisses, and the last talk at 
night in somebody’s chamber, and all the friends, 
and all the village, and oh! how lonely it would 
be not to hear papa preach. It would be sorrow- 
ful and homesick enough if she were going with 
Cousin Jennie, but the desolate house and closed 
shutters and no evenings — how could she choose to 
go? “I was in prison and ye came unto Me,” but 
it did not say “ came and lived with me.” Christ 
came down and lived on the earth though, leaving 
His Father and the glory that He had with Him 
before the world was. He was rich and He became 
poor ; and she would not become poor ; her home 
would be comfortable, if a home could be comfor- 
table without any love or light in it. Ten thou- 
sand dollars would not repay her if she needed 
the money for her herself, but she wanted this for 
Trude, for Trude who was fast asleep this minute 
without a trouble in the world. She could live 
through it, it would not kill her, and if it did she 
would come home to die. If papa or mamma could 
have a shadow of her distress they would insist 
that she should not go, but no one should know ; 
it was blessed to be needed somewhere, at last. 
She was glad that Eobin was going out into the 
world so differently. She would take “Mrs. He- 
mans” with her and “Tupper” and “Adelaide Proc- 


102 


ELECTA. 


tor ” and all her old school-books and a new blank- 
book for a journal, and a half ream of commercial 
note, and how many postage stamps ? She would 
certainly write one letter every day ; there were thir- 
ty days in November — but the money ! Mus^she 
deduct it from her hundred dollars ? She wanted 
to give mamma the unbroken hundred; but she 
would need shoes and a winter bonnet and — oh, 
dear, if she bought her own things how little she 
would have left to pay Trude s bills ! What would 
be gained, after all? Hardly any thing beside 
helping the two old ladies who needed her. “I 
was in prison — ^in prison — in prison — ” she moaned 
and then God comforted her with sleep. 


V. 


X 

SUSPENSE. 

A week passed bringing no word from Cousin 
Jane. Did the silence augur her pleasure or dis- 
pleasure? It might be, after all, that she need 
not go; if Cousin Jane would not receive her, then 
God had not accepted her sacrifice ; it was not, it 
could not be, a cheerful offering, how could He 
accept it ? Perhaps, instead, she might find some 
happy thing to do, something as happy as Robin’s. 
Robin’s happiness had come to her so easily, and 
she herself had pulled and tugged with all her 
strength to find hers, and it seemed to be a misery 
instead of a happiness. Robin went singing about 
the house all day, while she could scarcely speak 
a bright word and was exerting herself every hour 
to keep back homesick tears. Becoming restless 
with suspense one afternoon towards sunset, she 
took her hat upon her arm and went out. Vail 
stood leaning against the gate post with a bunch 
of feathers in his hand. 

“I’ve found the loveliest one!” he exclaimed, 
turning towards her, “one side is all gray the other 
all brown ; I never saw any thing like it.” 


104 


ELECTA, 


For five years Vail had been collecting feathers; 
his enthnsiasin never waned; one of the old top- 
ics in family council was to question the reason of 
his love for them, one insisting that it was the va- 
riety of color, another the softness and delicacy 
of material. At one time he was never without a 
feather in his hand ; he had not very long been too 
big a boy to carry a feather to church. 

“ It is pretty,” she answered, taking it into her 
hand. 

“ May I go with you, please ? ” 

“ Not to-night; I want to be alone by myself.” 

“ Don’t go where the gypsies are.” 

“ I’m not afraid.” 

“Electa,” following her and holding her back, 
“ what should we do if God wasn’t living ? ” 

“We shouldn’t do at all; we shouldn’t be alive.” 

“ Can’t He ever die ? ” he questioned anxiously. 

“ No, never die.” 

“Tell me something funny, the funniest thing 
you know.” 

“You are the funniest thing I know,” she an- 
swered laughing; “do let me go, and you think 
about feathers.” 

He released her reluctantly; he was full of 
thoughts to-day and wanted to talk them out to 
somebody. 

“Has Queen Victoria as much power as the 
chess queen ? ” he asked. 

“Ask papa.” 

“Why can’t I go with you, ’Lecta? You’ll think 


SUSPENSE. 


105 


of how you refused me, when you can’t have me,” 
he added pathetically. 

“ Then I’ll write you a letter and say I’m sorry,” 
she said, smiling at his wheedling tone. 

“ Good-by,” he called after her. 

“Good-by,” she returned, thinking how lonely 
it would be not to have any one to say good-by 
to her. 

Every hour, every moment there would be some- 
thing to miss. She began to feel how much she 
was giving up. 

From her earliest childhood Electa had been the 
one among the children “to give up.” 

At first it had only been the roundest and rosiest 
apple, the little chair that she liked best, the seat 
next to papa or mamma, the staying at home that 
another might have a place in the carriage, the 
book that she was reading or a shade of ribbon 
that she had set her childish heart upon ; but now, 
at seventeen, making no more ado about it than 
she had about the book or apple, she was giving 
up, for six long months, every thing that she loved 
on earth, every thing and every body. 

“The child seems anxious to go,” mamma said to 
papa. 

“Electa is the queerest girl,” the girls said to 
each other. So nobody knew and nobody guessed. 

“I hope she won’t get queer among those old 
ladies,” said Celia. 

“ I know she’ll come home in cap and spectacles,” 
said Robin. 


106 


ELECTA, 


“How will you come home, daughter?” her fa- 
ther had asked; “don’t learn to love nonsense.” 

Electa did not know that any one thought about 
her going ; her plan was such a little, old-fashioned 
affair while Eobin’s was startling, delightful and 
bewildering to the home child. 

Following the overgrown path along the way- 
side, stooping now and then to pick a spray of late 
golden rod or to gather a cluster of bright leaves, 
her thoughts, meanwhile, upon the one thought 
of what the mail might bring, she sauntered for 
half a mile, then stopped before a white gate and 
laid her hand upon the latch. The grass plat was 
smooth and very green, a box-bordered, paved path 
led up to the open front door, upon the rustic 
porch a lady in a wooden rocker sat sewing. 

“Here she is, Susie,” the lady called to some 
one within; “here’s the somebody you’ve been 
wishing for. Good evening. Electa; come in.” 

“Not to-night, thank you,” said Electa; “I came 
out to meet Ned as he comes from the mail.” 

“ But Susie has been wishing for somebody and 
you must come in.” 

A slight figure in pink calico danced out upon 
the porch. “ 0, Electa ! ” she cried. 

Electa could not resist the tone. 

Susie flew down the path to meet her, linking 
her arm within Electa’s. 

“Come around to the kitchen door,” she whis- 
pered, “ I’ve so been hoping that you would come 
to-night.” 


SUSPENSE. 


107 


“ What for ? Is any thing to happen ? ” 

“Yes; I want to do something and Fm afraid to 
do it alone.” 

“ 1 shall not be very much help.” 

“Yes, you will. I only want you to be with me.” 

A broad stone formed the kitchen doorstep, 
Electa stepped upon it and stood looking into the 
cosey kitchen. If Cousin Jane’s kitchen were only 
as neat and cosey as that! What Cousin Jane’s 
kitchen might be she dared not imagine. 

“Stand here a moment,” said Susie. “It’s a 
secret, promise not to tell.” 

“ I don’t want to promise.” 

“Well you won’t tell, I know.” 

Susie crossed the kitchen and opened a closet 
door; taking down the tea canister she poured 
about a cupful of tea into a small, white paper bag, 
then opening the sugar box she filled another 
paper bag half full of sugar; upon the top shelf 
wrapped in a brown paper were eleven sperm 
candles, she reached them, standing on tip-toe, 
counted them twice, then selected two, and re- 
placed the others; she rolled these two together in 
a piece of newspaper, laid the three parcels upon 
the table, and stood considering with her finger 
upon her lip. She was a year younger than Electa, 
a fresh, pretty girl, with innocent eyes and pout- 
ing, self-willed lips. 

“ That will do I ” she exclaimed half aloud. 

“Are you playing Lady Bountiful?” asked Electa, 
standing upon the threshold. 


108 


ELECTA, 


“Yes,” said Susie, laughing uncomfortably. “ Oh, 
I forgot, I want a bar of soap.” 

The soap was in the store-room, a poor little 
store-room, and there were but four bars, piled one 
above the others on an old chair. Susie lifted one 
and looked at it; there were but three left, her 
mother would certainly miss one out of four. But 
the old gypsy woman had spoken of soap, she 
must take the soap or give up her plan altogether. 

A flushed face with down cast eyes and un- 
certain lips met Electa’s eyes as Susie went out 
to her. 

“ I’ll take the candles and soap,” she said hur- 
riedly, “you take the tea and sugar, Electa.” 

“Very well,” assented Electa, “are they for old 
Mrs. Truax, or her seventy grandchildren ? ” 

“ Seventy grandchildren ! ” repeated Susie. 

“This will hardly go around,” laughed Electa; 
“ who are they for, Susie ? ” 

“I’ll tell you; don’t speak so loud,” cautioned 
Susie, taking a broad-brimmed hat from its nail. 
“ I’ll wear this hat, and we’ll go out the gate and 
across lots.” 

“Then I shall miss Ned,” thought Electa, hesi- 
tatingly taking the sugar and tea from Susie’s 
hand. 

They went down the path, through a rickety 
gateway, and across a fleld of corn stubble. 

“Where are you going, Susie? This isn’t the 
way to Mrs. Truax’s,” said Electa, pausing in her 
tiresome walk. 


SUSPENSE. 


109 


“rm not going there,” answered Susie shortly; 
“ I suppose I must tell you.” 

Electa went on a few steps till she came to a 
rail fence, she threw herself wearily against it, 
leaning back against a slanting post. 

Susie stooped to pull a weed, speaking as she 
stooped, with her face turned away from Electa. 

“ They are for the old gypsy woman.” 

“ She shan’t have them ! ” cried Electa ; “ your 
mother works too hard to support an old, idle, 
wicked woman, Susie Prentiss.” 

“Mother doesn’t know it,” faltered Susie, straight- 
ening herself and tossing away the weed. “She 
asked me for them. I told her that I had no 
money, and she said that she would take things.” 

“ What for ? ” questioned Electa sharply. 

“ To pay her for telling my fortune,” said Susie 
humbly. 

Electa drew herself up without a word, Susie did 
not raise her eyes to meet the look of anger and 
sorrow and surprise that she could feel from head 
to foot. 

“You steal from your dear, hard-working mother 
to give to that wicked woman to do a shameful 
thing for you ! ” 

“I haven’t any money, and if I asked mother, 
she would ask me what 1 wanted to do with it ; so 
what else could I do ? ” cried Susie with a fright- 
ened sob. 

“ Give me the soap and candles,” commanded 
Electa, laying her hand on Susie’s shoulder. 


110 


ELECTA, 


“What for?” asked Susie poutingly. 

“I’ll take them back to where you took them 
from ! I’d rather die than do such a mean thing ! 
0, Susie I didn’t think it of you ! ” 

“Well, I’ll take them back. I’ll have to if you 
won’t go with me; but I did want my fortune 
told,” said Susie petulantly; “ I don’t see the harm.” 

“In stealing from your mother?” 

“Yes; that is mean,” confessed Susie, in a re- 
lieved tone. “ I did feel mean all the time ; I have 
felt mean ever since I promised the gypsy.” She 
laid her hand on Electa’s arm, but Electa shook 
it off. 

“Don’t touch me; I’m too angry with you.” 

“ I’ll walk close to you, then,” said Susie, half- 
laughing as they turned towards home. “ I’m as 
frightened as I can be. She has an awful look, 
and lives in a dark tent, and covers herself with 
red stuff, and she swears. Why is it wicked to 
have your fortune told. Electa?” 

“ So you think it is wicked ? ” said Electa, peni- 
tently taking Susie’s hand and drawing it through 
her arm. “I didn’t mean to be so harsh, but I 
am so shocked.” 

“Is it wicked? Why is it wicked?” asked 
Susie. 

“Papa told me yesterday. What is your for- 
tune ? ” 

“Things that are going to happen to us.” 

“Who makes things happen?” 

Susie hesitated. She felt too wicked to take 


SUSPENSE, 


111 


God’s holy name upon her lips ; in a hushed tone 
she replied, “God.” 

“ Then how does any one beside God know what 
will happen ? ” 

“I don’t know,” said Susie, holding her soap 
and candles uneasily. 

“Nobody can know but God.” 

“But He can tell somebody.” 

“Do you want Him to tell that wicked woman 
that swears what He has laid up to happen to you? ” 

“No,” said Susie, with a sob in her throat. 

“ Do you believe that He has told her ? ” 

“ No — I — don’t — really.” 

“ Papa says that He will tell us when the time 
comes.” 

“ It would be fun to know to-night,” said Susie. 

“ God doesn’t make things happen just for fun,” 
said Electa, as sternly as her father would have 
spoken; “what I want to know is what I must 
do, not what will happen to me.” 

“ How do you mean do.^” asked Susie, perplexed. 

“ Oh, right things to do, — how to make choices. 
You chose whether to go to the gypsy or not, and 
you chose to go. You chose whether to steal or 
not, and you stole, and then you would have had 
to cover it with a lie. See how many bad things 
you chose to do. Your mother is such a dear 
mamma, too. 0, Susie, how could you?” 

“I don’t know how I could. I’m sure,” sobbed 
Susie, as frightened as she could be. “Perhaps 
she would have foretold something dreadful.” 


112 


ELECTA. 


“She might very well if she had known how 
you were deceiving your mother,” said Electa in 
papa’s tone. 

“Now don’t you ever, ever, ever tell; will you? 
Do you promise ? ” 

“ Yes, I promise,” said Electa solemnly. 

“ I’ll put the things back as soon as I can.” 

Through the stubble with slow step they walked. 
Electa stopping once to rest beside a shock of 
corn. Susie’s face was flushed, tearful, and fright- 
ened; Electa’s very grave, and as papa’s would 
have been, somewhat stern. Electa was finding 
it hard to forgive her. 

“ I don’t dare tell mother,” said Susie, as Electa 
arose to go on. 

“I would. I couldn’t rest until I confessed.” 

“But I didn’t do it.” 

“Why didn’t you?” 

“ Because you wouldn’t go with me, I suspect,” 
laughed Susie. 

“You won’t be happy until you are forgiven.” 

“I’m not happy now; I’ve been cross all day. 
I was hoping for you. I knew that you wouldn’t 
go with me if it were wicked. Don’t you want 
to know what will happen to you when you 
grow up ? ” 

“Yes; I confess I do. I want to know if I 
shall have a letter to-night, and what will be in 
it. I want to know that more than any thing else. 
What do you want to know?” 

“Oh, ever so many things! Every thing that 


SUSPENSE. 


113 


will happen to me. 1 want to know if I shall ever 
go to boarding-school; Trude thinks it is so splen- 
did. I had a letter from her last night; and I 
want to know if I shall ever have an organ and a 
diamond ring, and if I shall ever travel in Europe, 
and if mother will ever pay off the mortgage on 
this house, and — ” 

“ Did you think that the gypsy knew all these 
things?” asked Electa, smiling. 

“ She pretends to.” 

“ I’ll tell you a better fortune than she can.” 

“ Oh, do ! ” cried Susie eagerly. 

Electa spoke seriously. “ Judging by what you 
have done to-night, I imagine that you have de- 
ceived your mother before; if you want a happy 
fortune, — ” 

“ Oh, I do.” 

“Then be good, and get it. I hope you’ll go 
to boarding-school, and have the organ. I want 
you to have good things ; papa says obey and pray 
will get good things.” 

Susie pouted and would not speak. Obedience 
was the hardest of all hard work, and she had not 
learned how to pray ; nevertheless she wanted good 
things. 

Again they passed through the rickety gateway, 
and again Electa stood upon the flat door-stone. 
Nervously and eagerly Susie took off the cover of 
the tea canister and poured back the tea; she 
opened the sugar box and poured back the sugar, 
reached up to the top shelf and replaced the can- 


114 


ELECTA, 


dies, and then hastily, for her mother’s step was 
at the kitchen door, placed the bar of soap upon 
the pile in the chair, and breathed freely. These 
stolen articles were the heaviest weight that she 
had ever carried. 

“ Why, girls, I thought you had gone out ! ” Mrs. 
Prentiss exclaimed as she entered the kitchen. 

“We didn’t go far,” said Susie from the store- 
room. “Electa, must you go now, right away?” 

“I see Ned and the old horse; I want to see 
what he has for me.” 

Susie followed Electa around to the front gate; 
they stood at the gate till Ned trotted up on the 
walk, Susie keeping her arm around Electa. 

“ Any thing for me ? ” queried Electa, as steadily 
as she could speak. 

“One letter, that’s all. It’s in my pocket with 
the others ; can’t you wait till I get home ? ” 

“ I can, but I don’t want to.” 

“ Well, then, here goes. It’s a thin letter in a 
yellow envelope, and the writing is so fine that 
you can’t see it.” 

It seemed to Electa as if he would never find it. 
There were papers for papa, letters for papa, mag- 
azines for papa, letters for Celia, a package for 
Kobin, letters for Nan, one for Mollie, a book for 
mamma, but the thin letter in the yellow envelope 
was not forth-coming. 

In each pants’ pocket, in the jacket pockets he 
searched; he looked again among the papers and 
letters ; it was not to be found. 


SUSPENSE. 


115 


“ Oh dear! ” sighed Electa, “ can you have lost 
it, Ned?" 

“ It looks like it,” he said soberly. “ 1 saw it on 
the counter ; I felt of it and looked at the writing ; 
I wonder if I have lost it or left it on the counter. 
I don’t want to go back. Electa.” 

“ Then I’ll walk back. I must have it. I can’t 
go to sleep without it.” 

“You can’t walk so far.” 

“ I can try.” 

“I suppose I can go back; but I may have 
dropped it on the way; somebody’ll be sure to 
find it, and bring it to us.” 

“ But I want it to-night,” she answered, with a 
patient little wail in her voice. 

“ Well, I’ll go back. You had better go on 
home.” 

“Look everywhere on both sides of the road,” 
advised she. 

“I’ll find it if it is to be found,” he cried. “ Now 
turn around. General; you and I are not fit to be 
mail carriers if we lose the mail.” 

Ned turned back and trotted otf. Electa went 
out into the road and stood looking after him. 
Away off in the west and north crimson clouds 
were piled high; away off the hills were crowned 
with the crimson, yellow, and brown of oak and 
maple. Susie stood moodily leaning over the gate, 
looking off towards the hills ; Electa, a little, girl- 
ish figure in pink and green gingham, with her 
brown straw hat hanging by its strings from the 


116 


ELECTA. 


back of her neck, stood in the middle of the road, 
a grieved, disappointed air in every breath and 
motion. Ned was turning to the right and the 
left, but apparently seeing nothing. Suppose that 
it should never be found? Could she write to 
Cousin Jane again, when she was not sure that 
the letter was from her ? 

God could see the lost letter ; His eyes were upon 
it. He knew its hiding place. Would He show Ned 
where it was? Would He show her if she should 
follow Ned and search on both sides of the road ? 

“ Don’t look so melancholy. Electa ! ” said Susie ; 
“the letter is somewhere.” 

“ A mistake in the direction of a letter saved a 
king and a kingdom once. I’ve been waiting for 
this so long. It will make such a difference to 
me. Well,” sighingly, “I’ll go home; good-night.” 

“ I’ll stand here and watch for Ned,” said Susie. 
“ I hope you’ll find it. Electa.” 

It was not easy to turn homewards with the lost 
letter somewhere behind her ; it was so hard to do 
nothing towards finding it. If she should never 
find it, it vrould be among the lost things ; oh, how 
full the world was of lost things! Her footsteps 
lingered; with the letter behind her she could not 
go forward. Suddenly there was a rustle among a 
clump of young trees by the roadside; she knew 
the road so well by night and day that she was 
not startled. She stayed her steps and turned to 
look towards the village. 

“ Oh, dear,” she sighed; “oh, dear me.” 


SUSPENSE. 


117 


“Little miss, may I tell you what you have 
lost?” 

The words and the whining voice startled her 
into a low cry ; almost too frightened to see clearly, 
she saw before her a short, stout figure wrapped in 
a dirty red cloak ; the dark ugly face peered from 
beneath long, tangled iron gray hair. A grimy, 
long hand was extended towards her, almost clutch- 
ing her. “Put your pretty white hand in mine, 
deary, and let me tell your fortune.” 

“No, thank you,” said Electa clearly, with an 
effort speaking at all. 

“You will never find what you have lost unless 
you do,” persisted the gypsy coaxingly. 

“ I’ll risk it. I think I shall find it.” 

“ I know where it is.” 

“1 shall know pretty soon,” answered Electa, 
trembling from head to foot. 

“You are the little lame girl, the parson’s 
daughter. Bless your sweet face ! I’d find it for 
you if I could, for your beautiful mother’s sake. 
She gave me some butter-milk to-night, and the 
rarest thing of all, a few kind words, and said she 
hoped God would take care of me, for He came 
into the world to find me because I am lost. No- 
body ever said that to me before. Bless your 
sweet face; good evening to you.” 

Gathering her cloak about her, with a low in- 
clination of her bare gray head the woman passed 
on. Electa had murmured “thank you;” she was 
shivering with fear and almost too weak to stand. 


118 


ELECTA. 


The red cloak moved on slowly. Electa turned 
again; the wild locks were blowing about the 
gypsy’s shoulders, she was muttering quick words, 
clasping and unclasping her hands. Among all 
the lost things in the world to-night was this old, 
wicked woman; no one could find her but Jesus, 
the Lord. Electa stood watching her until she 
had passed Susie’s gate ; Susie was not there, after 
one frightened glance towards the gypsy she had 
run in to her mother. 

The red cloak was stooping; the bony fingers 
had found something, something yellow. Was it 
her letter? Now she was examining it, turning 
it over and over, and now holding it above her 
head and waving it in the air. 

“ Here’s your letter,” she shouted. 

“ Oh, thank you,” cried Electa, starting towards 
her. 

The woman walked rapidly towards her; tak- 
ing Electa’s eager, outstretched hand. “You are 
not afraid to touch the dirty old woman now 
with your clean little hands. I hope that I have 
brought you a blessing, for your sweet mother’s 
sake.” 

“ I thank you very, very much,” cried Electa. 
“ I’ll never forget you. I was afraid that I shouldn’t 
find it.” 

“You will always find what is good for you to 
find. I lived in a home once, and had a mother. 
I have lost my life, and that’s harder to find 
than a letter.” 


SUSPENSE. 


119 


“I hope you’ll find it,” said Electa pityingly. 
‘‘Come and see mother; she’ll help you look.” 

“We move again to-morrow. I hope there’s a 
blessing in the letter, deary.” 

The red cloak touched Electa’s dress as the wo- 
man made a motion to go on ; for one instant the 
bony hand was laid on hers. 

“Good-night; and thank you again,” said Electa. 
She held the yellow letter in her hand, it was 
Cousin Jane’s fine, cramped penmanship. She 
went on a little way before she could tear it open. 
Would it take her away from home? Almost 
wishing that the gypsy had not found it, she tore 
it slowly open. 

“Dear little Cousin Electa: — We cried over your 
letter. We can hardly wait until you come. You 
shall have every thing you want. Mr. Ryle says 
that he will meet you at the Swanzey depot and 
bring you here in his carriage. Send him a line 
when to meet you. Our kind regards to every one 
of you. 

“Your affectionate cousins, 

“Jane and Patty Westlake.” 

It was decided then, at last, after all the long, 
weary suspense. Holding it in her hand she went 
on slowly, not turning once to look back. 

“I say, ’Lecta.” General’s feet were close behind 
her. “I’m dreadful sorry, but I can’t find the 
letter ” 


120 


ELECTA. 


“ Look in my hand and find it/’ she said; “the 
gypsy woman found it. It was on the grass, below 
Susie’s gate.” 

“ I don’t believe it. How could she find it, when 
I looked and couldn’t ? ” 

“Perhaps it was under something. You must 
believe the evidence of your own eyes.” 

“ I don’t. She had it in her pocket. I know it 
wasnt in the grass.” 

“ I know it is in my hand and that’s all I care 
to know.” 

“ Are you going, then ? ” 

“Yes, I’m going, I suppose, if papa and mamma 
are willing.” 

Mamma read the letter, then gave it to papa. 

“Well,” he said. 

“I’ll go and see them,” she said thoughtfully. 

“0, mamma, mamma! Will you, really?” cried 
Electa throwing both arms around her mother’s 
neck. 

“ My little daughter, did you think that papa and 
I would let you go among strangers not knowing 
how you would be cared for ? ” 

That night Electa prayed: “Our Father, please 
find the lost gypsy woman and make her good.” 
For a long time afterward she prayed for her, but 
she never learned how her prayer was ans.wered. 


OUT IN THE WORLD. 


It was a raw day in early November; a storm had 
been threatening for two days, and in the twilight 
the rain began to fall in slow, heavy drops. The 
cylinder stove in the little waiting-room at Swanzey 
was red hot, the train had arrived a few moments 
since, leaving but two travellers, an old gentleman 
and a young girl; the old gentleman had looked 
neither to the right hand nor to the left, but had 
opened his umbrella and hurried away ; but the 
young girl had gazed long in both directions as 
she stood under the awning on the platform; she 
had shaken her head to a colored man, and to a 
young boy who had both said, “ Carriage, ma’am,” 
and gone reluctantly into the empty waiting-room. 
Her trunk stood upon the platform, it was the only 
thing within a hundred miles that was a part of 
home ; after another glance towards it, she opened 
the waiting-room door and went to the red-hot 
stove and stood there shivering. There was noth- 
ing like home anywhere; the street out of each 
window was unfamiliar, the stores were not like 


122 


ELECTA, 


home, for there were no stores at home ; on the top 
of a sandy eminence there stood a handsome house, 
out of another window she saw a row of stores, 
opposite the stores among the dwellings she no- 
ticed one farther back from the road than the 
others, with a grass plat and pretty piazza; there 
were flowers and white curtains at the lower win- 
dows; at one of them an old lady with white hair 
was standing with a flower in her hand. The house 
attracted her, and the old lady’s hair and the flower 
in her hand. That was not home, but it was home- 
like. She wondered how many daughters the old 
lady had. The lady lingered but a moment, her 
bit of home went with her; it was growing darker 
and darker, the slow rain-drops fell heavily upon 
her heart. They were all at the tea-table at home, 
and Vail was asking, “Where is Electa now?” 
She could hear his voice, she could see her mother’s 
face, she could see Robin as she helped the fruit. 
Was any one sitting in her place? It would be her 
place still if she stayed away forever. If that lady 
were only Cousin Jane or Cousin Patty ! 

It was growing darker and darker, and no one 
had come to meet her. Her father had written to 
Mr. Ryle, not giving him time to reply, taking it 
for granted that he would be at home. Suppose 
that he were not at home, what would she do? 
What could she do ? What should she do ? She 
walked up and down considering, meanwhile it 
was growing darker and darker. A man came in, 
looked at her questioningly and curiously, and then 


OUT IN THE WORLD. 


123 


proceeded to light the kerosene lamp that was 
placed against the wall. 

“ Is Mr. Kyle’s parsonage near the depot ? ” she 
found courage to ask. 

“ Oh,” he exclaimed scrutinizingly, “that’s where 
you’re going! Just over the way, the house that’s 
back from the road, where the flowers are.” 

“ Thank you,” she answered brightly. She could 
not feel strange now; if he did not come in an 
hour she would go to his home. She could not 
feel timid and strange with that old lady. 

“A fine man is Mr. Ryle,” the man continued. 

“Yes,” said Electa. 

“ You know where the house is? ” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

He brushed the dust off the lamp, took off the 
chimney and replaced it, turned the wick up higher 
and turned it down lower, after another long look 
at her face and hands, at her waterproof and um- 
brella, and at the parcels in her hand, he slowly 
made his way out. Electa smiled as she thought 
that it was rather hard for him not to know why 
she waited there instead of crossing the street. 
With the slightest encouragement he would have 
inquired, but Electa’s tone was not encouraging. 
The door opened again; she was at the window 
watching the lights at the parsonage windows; 
her heart gave a sudden throb as she turned to- 
wards the opening door, for it was more than a 
slight trial for her to meet this stranger who was 
coming to meet her, — who had been coming to 


124 


ELECTA, 


meet her all the years that both had lived. She 
felt that he was coming into her life to do her 
good, that he had done good in her life already. 
With a disappointed glance and a feeling of relief 
that she had not to meet him just this minute, she 
seated herself on the wooden bench that ran along 
the whitewashed wall and waited. The new-comer 
was an Irishwoman with a broad, red face and 
closely curling black hair; she was wrapped in a 
red and green plaid shawl, a soiled, white woollen 
cloud being twined around her head and neck. 
After depositing a bandbox, a satchel, and two 
brown paper parcels on the seat beside Electa, she 
seated herself close to her parcels, folded her hands 
on her knees, and looked around. In striking 
contrast was the little figure in the long, brown 
waterproof, buttoned from feet to chin ; over Electa’s 
hat was tied a brown veil with the ends fiowing 
over her braids ; one hand was gloved in a shabby, 
brown kid glove, the other, bare, nervous and 
slight, held a package of gum-drops and an illus- 
trated paper. The dampness had brought a tinge 
of color to her cheeks and curled a stray lock of 
hair that had dropped over her forehead. Her 
face was very sweet and patient to-day, rather too 
quiet, almost lacking animation when in repose, 
and the voice like the face was almost too quiet, 
unless she were very much interested, and usually 
she was not very much interested. She had lived 
within herself all her life. All her life! She 
would not have smiled at the phrase, for the 


OUT IN THE WORLD. 


125 


se ventee n years seemed to her a long and full life-’ 
time, h Trude and the boys were so much younger. 
Seventeen years and three months! She would 
not have you forget the three months, for in these 
eventful three months she had begun to learn that 
there was something in the world outside of her- 
self Papa’s parting words had been suggestive: 

“Promise me something, daughter.” 

“ If I can, papa.” 

“ Promise me that you will not think of yourself 
until you see me again.” 

She hesitated and looked doubtful. 

“If— I can,” she promised slowly; “I will do 
my best.” 

Must she forget herself now, in thinking of the 
Irishwoman and her huge piece of cheese? The 
woman had taken a yellow paper bundle from her 
satchel and unrolling it, disclosed a square piece 
of cheese, certainly half a pound, and biting into 
it, holding it with both hands, was eating it with 
much relish. 

“Would you be pleased to take a bit, miss?” 
she inquired politely, as Electa’s eyes betrayed her 
notice of it. 

“No, thank you; I never eat it.” 

“It’s very good.” 

“ I see that it is. I am glad thaf you like it,” 
said Electa, trying to think of this something out- 
side of herself 

“I haven’t had any breakfast and scarce any 
dinner.” 


126 


ELECTA. 


“ Then you must be hungry,” Electa said, rising 
to prevent further conversation. 

She paced the length of the small room, at one 
side of the stove, then at the other ; she stood be- 
fore each of the three windows and looked out 
into the rain and the darkness. The stores were 
being lighted and there was a voice in the street, 
a strange voice, one hundred miles away from 
The Beehive. 

“ If he do not come, what shall I do ? ” she 
thought. “I might take a carriage and go to 
Cousin Jane’s myself. I might go to the parson- 
age — but I won’t! Perhaps he has changed his 
mind and doesn’t wish to take the trouble; I will 
not trouble him, he needn’t be afraid, I can find 
the way by myself” Ought she to have faith in 
him and wait? It was not in her heart to give 
faith lightly; but she trusted Mr. Ryle — his eyes 
were true, his voice was true. That day that she 
had stood on the edge of the wood, looking into 
it, watching his movements, how surprised she 
would have been had she known that before very 
long she would be waiting for him at a depot 
near his own parsonage, the only one not quite 
a stranger within a hundred miles. It was grow- 
ing darker and darker, the rain was beating heav- 
ily against the panes. 

“ I think I won’t stay and be Casabianca,” she 
thought. '**‘‘I’ll go out and find somebody.” She 
opened the door and looked out upon the plat- 
form; her trunk stood there bearing her solitary 


OUT IN THE WORLD. 


127 


company, lights far and near were glimmering 
through the rain. Closing the door with a sink- 
ing heart, for she did not like to be out in the 
world taking care of herself, she walked up and 
down the room thinking. She did not know what 
to do. It would be very lonely to drive this dark 
night through a strange country with a stranger; 
she would not know whether or not he were tak- 
ing her in the right direction; but that was one 
alternative. The other was to make herself known 
at the parsonage. 

Which was the wiser thing to do ? She shrank 
unutterably from both; was there no other thing 
to do? She might go to a hotel, but she had 
never been in a hotel in her life, and to sleep 
among strangers was most intolerable of all. 

“ Can I help you, miss ? ” inquired the Irish- 
woman. 

Electa was not brave ; her eyes were full of tears. 

“ No, thank you. Do you know where Miss 
Jane Westlake lives?” 

“Westlake ? No ; I never heard the name, ma’am.” 

At that instant the door opened ; Electa sprang 
forward with both hands outstretched, the tears 
now not only in her eyes, but on her cheeks. The 
same face, rugged, shrewd, kindly, the same black 
eyes that had looked down at her from under the 
Panama hat; this time her hands, gum-drops, pict- 
ure paper and all were taken and held; in that 
other time he was not a strange stranger, in this 
time he seemed a near friend. 


128 


ELECTA. 


“ Miss Electa, I beg your pardon. You are not 
very tired waiting ; you did not feel very strange ? 
Three minutes since I returned from a three days’ 
absence; your father’s letter was handed me, and 
here I am. You must have been here half an 
hour.” 

“ Half a lifetime,” she laughed. 

“ Can you walk a short distance ? Are your 
feet protected ? Your trunk shall be sent to Miss 
Westlake’s by stage to-morrow; my buggy will 
not hold it. Can you exist all night without it ? 
Would you like to open it and take out any thing?” 

“I don’t know,” she said, withdrawing her hands. 
It would be lonely not to have her Bible, her very 
own Bible on this first night. 

“ We want you to stay at the parsonage to- 
night ; my mother is waiting to see you. I told Miss 
Jane that I should take you to her at my own 
convenience. I will have your trunk sent over to 
the parsonage; how thoughtless I was.” 

“But can’t I go on to Cousin Jane’s?” 

“In the rain? And it promises to be a dark 
night.” 

“But I don’t know your mother.” 

“You don’t know Cousin Jane either; and you 
do know me. I think that you will have to stay 
where you know somebody.” 

“Won’t Cousin Jane be disappointed?” j 

“Hardly; she will not expect you in this rain, j 
And my mother will be disappointed. She is 
blind ; do you not wish to give her this pleasure ? ” 


/ 


OUT IN THE WORLD, 129 

“ Oh, is she blind ? Then I will go. I did not 
think that she would care.” 

“ She has never seen my face, and I am her only 
child.” 

“ And she hasn’t any girls ? I wish that she had 
some girls.” 

“ So do I. Now wait one moment. I’ll go out 
and send your trunk over.” 

“Thank you,” said Electa gratefully, feeling as 
he left her, as if she were out in the world and 
being taken care of. 

“ Now you are safe,” cried the Irishwoman. 

“Yes; now I’m safe,” replied Electa. 

Mr. Ryle returned in one moment. After taking 
Electa’s hand and drawing it through his arm, he 
opened the door and they stepped out upon the 
platform. The rain dashed against them and the 
wind blew cold in their faces. 

“ This isn’t a good night for you to become ac- 
quainted with our little village, but you shall see 
it in the sunshine ; some day you shall see all the 
world in the sunshine, as my mother does. She is 
the happiest woman I know. I shall often take her 
over to see you at Miss Westlake’s, that she may 
sh.ow them some of her sunshine.” 

They crossed the street, Mr. Ryle very easily 
suiting his steps to hers, and passed several houses ; 
one of them was lighted only at one side, another 
only at one end, another only on the first floor at 
the front, one was not lighted at all, but the par- 
sonage was bright at every window. 


130 


ELECTA. 


“Mother loves the light,” said Mr. Ryle, open- 
ing the gate ; “ she can see a glimmer of light, and 
it cheers her greatly.” 

She shyly withdrew her arm and murmured 
“ Thank you,” as they stepped upon the piazza. 

Mr. Ryle threw open the door, revealing to 
Electa a broad, bright, carpeted hall, heated and 
lighted, and sweet with the breath of flowers. 
As she entered and stood in the vestibule, she 
felt as if she were in the midst of some good 
happening. 

“Mother,” Mr. Ryle called, “I’ve brought you 
your little girl.” 

The doors leading into back and front parlors 
and into the study at the end of the hall were all 
open ; a slow step touched the soft carpet, and then 
standing in the doorway of the front parlor Electa 
saw the white-haired lady with the flower in her 
hand. 

Mr. Ryle took her hand and led her to his mother. 
The lady stooped and took her into her arms. 
“You are ‘ only Electa,’ ” she said, “ and not Nan, nor 
Celia, nor Robin, nor Trude, nor Mollie.” 

“ She is a little thing, mother, with blue eyes and 
hair like pale gold, and all the rest you will see for 
yourself” 

“ Are you tired, dear ? ” 

“Oh, no, ma’am,” said Electa, feeling as if she 
were never tired in her life. 

“ I will take you upstairs that you maj feel at 
home in your room. Where is her trunk, David ? ” 


OUT IN THE WORLD, 


131 


“ It will be here immediately. You ladies can’t 
exist without a trunk.” 

“Not when they have been travelling in the 
rain,” said his mother. 

Mrs. Eyle stepped slowly up the stairs with her 
hand upon the stair-railing; Electa followed, tak- 
ing slow steps witli her hand upon the stair-railing. 
God had laid His hand upon them both. Mrs. Eyle 
knew that to her it had been in blessing; perhaps 
Electa would know it, too, some day. Mr. Eyle 
watched them with a tender light shining through 
his misty eyes. 

“My mother and my little girl,” he thought, 
“ may God make that child as happy a woman as 
my mother is.” 

The doors upon the second floor were all thrown 
open; each room being lighted by a lamp sus- 
pended from the ceiling in the hall. 

“ You shall have the blue room,” said Mrs. Eyle 
pausing as she reached the top stair; blue is the 
color of the sky and it is the color of your eyes.” 

The blue room was the prettiest little room that 
Electa had ever seen. Its walls were tinted with 
pearl and bordered with crimson, blue, and gold; 
the carpet was of shaded blues mingled with 
white; the curtains were of dotted white muslin, 
reaching the carpet and tied back with heavy blue 
cord; the furniture was a cottage set of white 
ornamented with pansies; every thing about the 
low bedstead was of the purest white; the pic- 
tures were all hung with blue cord, and every bit 


132 


ELECTA. 


of fancy work and every ornament upon table, 
mantel, bracket, and bureau was tinted with blue. 

“ Oh, how pretty ! ” cried Electa, standing upon 
the threshold; “oh, how pretty! I never saw any 
thing so pretty in my life. It is too pretty for me, 
Mrs. Ryle; I wish that mamma could see it, and 
Nan, and Celia, and — why, all of them.” 

“ It is just pretty enough for you then. I wish 
that you were to stay a long time in it.” 

“I wish so, too. Can’t I fall sick? I would 
love to be sick in this room? Can’t I do some- 
thing so that you will have to keep me ? ” 

“I wish it might be; but what would those old 
cousins do ? A home without a little girl in it is 
very desolate. I am the joyful mother of a son, but 
I have always desired a little girl beside. Miss 
Patty is very ill — I haven’t had time to tell David ; 
the doctor told me to-day that he does not expect 
to find her alive to-morrow.” 

“ Are they all alone now, too ? Don’t you think 
that I ought to go to-night ? ” asked Electa, with 
a frightened look in her eyes. 

“No, they are not alone; the doctor called at the 
neighbors as soon as he was sent for, and they 
were all most glad to go to them.” 

“ I think that I might better go to-night,” said 
Electa, looking troubled. “ I ought to go ; perhaps 
they need me.” 

“ Dear child, you could do no good ; the neigh 
bors are very kind.” 

“ But she expects me.” 


OUT m THE WORLD, 


133 


“ She is too ill to expect any body. Miss Jane 
will need you to-morrow.” 

Electa sighed and assented; she could not ask 
Mr. Eyle to take her in this storm; he had been 
on a journey, and he must be tired; but perhaps 
she could never do any thing for Cousin Patty un- 
less she went to-night; the poor old lady had been 
looking forward to her coming, and now she had 
come too late. 

“ There’s your trunk at the door now. David is 
telling them to leave it in the hall ; it will not be 
worth while to bring it upstairs for to-night. 
AVouldn’t you like to go down and take out what 
you want ? ” 

“ Yes’m, I’d like to change my dress.” 

“And then we’ll have tea, and a long evening 
together, if you are not too weary. It is the night 
of David’s weekly lecture, so that we shall be alone 
together.” 

Mrs. Eyle could not see the shade of disappoint- 
ment that swept over Electa’s face; the weekly 
lecture would be so like home, and she was hun- 
gering and thirsting for some word from God, 
some word that Mr. Eyle might have for her 
to-night. 

“I do not go out in the rain; the church is a 
five minutes’ walk around the corner, and I know 
that you have been out enough for one day. I 
want you to talk to me.” 

“Thank you,” said Electa, stifling the sob of 
homesickness in her throat. 


134 


ELECTA. 


“ You are sure that you like your room ? ” asked 
the lady anxiously. 

“Like it, Mrs. Ryle! I can think of nothing 
prettier.” 

“There is a lamp on the corner of the mantel, 
and the matches — ” 

“I see them in this pretty match-safe,” said 
Electa, touching the white china dog upon the 
bureau. 

“ Then I’ll go down and wait for you in the back 
parlor.” 

“ I will not be very long.” 

As they descended the stairs together Electa 
pondered; was it right for her to stay here and be 
comfortable when Cousin Patty expected her and 
might be needing her? If she were not needed 
in the sick room, there might be something for 
her to do about the house; Cousin Jane was very 
old and needed to be waited upon. But Mr. Ryle 
must know what was best for her to do, and how 
could she ask him to go out in the storm again ? 
If she might decide herself, she would certainly go ; 
she would keep her word at all hazards, she hu,d 
promised to be with them to-night. She would 
rather walk all the lonely, dark, stormy way than 
not go to Cousin Patty before she died. She had 
cried over her letter, she had been longing for her, 
and now she had come too late. 

“Child, are you sighing?” asked Mrs. Ryle, 
laying her hand upon Electa’s shoulder. 

“Was I? Papa says that is one of my habits.” 


OUT IN THE WORLD. 


135 


Her trunk had been placed near the front parlor 
door; it was a small hair trunk with her fathers 
initials in brass-headed nails upon one end. It 
was the trunk that he had gone out into the world 
with half a century ago. 

Mrs. Eyle stooped and laid her hand upon it. 
She waited until Electa had unlocked it and taken 
out her dress and the article that she would need 
for the night. 

“ Let me touch your dress,” she said. 

Electa laid it across her arm. “It is merino, 
an excellent quality, trimmed with velvet, there 
are velvet bows on the sleeves, and loops of velvet, 
narrower, at the throat. It is blue ! ” 

“ Yes’m ; a dark blue, and the velvet is blue.” 

“ There is lace at the neck and at the sleeves.” 

“Mother wore that lace on her wedding day; 
the girls have all worn it, now it is my turn,” said 
Electa, dropping the lid of her trunk. 

“It is very pretty. I have some of the same 
kind. Your hair is in braids, isn’t it? Will you 
unbraid it and let it fall over your shoulders ? I 
want you to be a real little girl to-night.” 

“No fear of any thing else mother ! ” cried a voice 
from the study; “ she is the littlest big girl I know.” 

With her dress across her arm and her Bible 
and toilet articles in her hands Electa went up- 
stairs alone; laying aside her things she lighted 
the small glass lamp, placed it on the bureau, and 
closed the door. If her chamber at Cousin Jane’s 
might only be like this; but that was a poor, cold. 


136 


ELECTA. 


bare, little room she knew ; her mother had chosen 
it for her because it opened out of Cousin Patty’s 
room. She would enjoy the luxury of the color 
and light and warmth to-night, it would help her 
bear her room to-morrow night. The whistle of 
the locomotive sounded in the distance ; that was 
strange and unlike home. For one homesiek mo- 
ment she opened her Bible and leaned her head 
upon it. As she raised her head a tear fell upon 
the words, “Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling- 
place in all generations.” He was her home; she 
could not die with homesickness, she could not be 
a hundred miles away from Him. In this pretty 
room and in the bare, cold, ugly room He was her 
home. He was Christ’s home when He was away 
from home down here on the earth. She straight- 
ened herself and looked at the reflection of herself; 
that face was like home; it was the face that mam- 
ma and Vail and all of them were missing. Un- 
buttoning her waterproof, she threw it over a chair 
and laid aside veil and hat and gloves; the illus- 
trated paper and the gum-drops she was keeping 
for the old ladies. She had been so sorry that she 
had nothing else to bring them. But Cousin Patty 
would not care, she could never do any thing for 
her. This would be the first time that she had 
worn the blue merino. Robin had given her the 
velvet and Celia had made the dress. They had 
all gathered around her when she had put it on 
and said how pretty she looked. It was her only 
new dress; the brown alpaca that had belonged to 


OUT IN THE WORLD. 


137 


Kobin she would wear every day, she liked it be- 
cause Kobin had worn it last winter. Unbraiding 
her two long braids, the hair fell in waves of pale 
gold over her shoulders reaching to her waist ; she 
tied it back with blue ribbon tying it in a bow 
upon the top of her head. 

“ I want to be pretty for her,” she said aloud. 

The face reflected as she stood before the glass 
was a sweet, innocent, unconscious face, as child- 
like as girlish, very lovable to those who loved 
girls. Shaking back her hair, and fastening an 
old-fashioned twisted gold pin into the loops of 
velvet at her throat, she took a last survey of her- 
self and turned from the glass. Was she selflsh 
and wicked to stay here and be comfortable? 
After standing still a moment in the centre of the 
room, she sank upon her knees at the bedside, 
dropping her head upon the white counterpane. 

“ Please take care of me out in the world,” she 
said; “and make me a blessing and bless every 
body at home to-night, and take Cousin Patty to 
heaven, and don’t let me die of homesickness 
please. Our Father, for Jesus’ sake.” 

Eising slowly, with her eyes full of tears, she 
extinguished the light and opened the door into 
the lighted hall. She lingered a moment on the 
stairs under pretence of brushing her hair away 
from her face, but in reality because such a lit of 
shyness seized her that, if she could, she would 
have run out into the rain and darkness, rather 
than go down into the parlor to greet her two 


138 


ELECTA. 


new friends. But now was the time not to shrink 
within herself, but to obey her father and think of 
the things outside of herself One slow step and 
then another, and she stood on the threshold of 
the front parlor, alone, for Mr. Eyle had shut him- 
self up within his study and his mother was seated 
in a red plush arm-chair before the fire in the grate 
in the back parlor, with her feet upon the fender 
and her hands folded over some white fancy work 
in her lap ; her face with its closed, sightless eyes 
was turned towards Electa. There was a scar 
upon her forehead and one cheek was discolored. 

“ I hear you. Electa; come here and let me touch 
you.” 

Electa drew near and knelt on the carpet, rest- 
ing both hands upon the arm of her chair. The 
tender, white fingers smoothed back Electa’s hair 
and touched her forehead, her cheeks, her chin, 
her lips, her eyes, and then taking both hands in 
hers, she said: “Now I know you. Your hands 
are little and smooth, they are clinging hands, 
your lips do not pout, your eyes do not stare, your 
hair is soft and yielding, you are as fragrant as a 
wood flower. I have the blessing of those who 
love without seeing. David has taken a cup of 
tea and shut himself up until the bell rings; you 
and I will have our tea alone together, and you 
shall tell me about The Beehive, how they all look 
and talk and what they love to do.” 

“ I’ll tell you about Vail first,” said Electa rising; 
“ he is as quaint as a hymn of the middle ages.” 


VII. 


SHELTERED. 

Opposite the front parlor door, across the hall, 
a door opened into the dining-room ; this room was 
long and low with a bright carpet, and gay paper 
upon the walls; a fire was burning in the grate, 
before it on the rug lay stretched a large New- 
foundland dog. On the round table, covered with 
a crimson cloth, was spread a most tempting sup- 
per, an arm-chair was placed at the head and at 
the foot of the table. 

“ Please take David’s chair,” said David’s mother 
as she seated herself at the head of the table; “he 
will not eat until he returns from lecture. This 
silver service was among my wedding presents, 
let me see — forty years ago. I have given it to 
David’s wife.” 

“I haven’t seen his wife,” said Electa. “Isn’t 
she here ? ” ^ 

“ I do not know where she is, but God knows. 

I ask Him every day to give a wife to David be- 
fore I die. I think of her so much that I feel ac- 
quainted with her. I do not think that he will 
find her among his people. There are many fine 


140 


ELECTA, 


women and sweet girls, however. I want his wife 
to be with him in his work, heart and soul; to be 
not only his wife, but a minister’s wife.” 

“ That’s what my mother is,” said Electa. 

Mrs. Ryle touched a bell upon the table near 
her right hand and almost instantly a pretty col- 
ored girl brought in the tea. 

As she withdrew Electa exclaimed, “ How pretty 
and lady-like she is ! ” 

“Isn’t she? Her mother was with me thirty 
years, and Mercy was born in my house.” 

Electa drew the napkin from her ring and waited. 
Mrs. Ryle bowed her head and asked God to re- 
fresh and strengthen them by this food for His 
service. Electa never forgot that supper so daintily 
served. 

“ Mercy suggested oysters, for she thought that 
our traveller might be hungry. What else is there 
upon the table ? ” 

“ Cold chicken,” said Electa, “ preserved peaches, 
jelly, oranges, bread and butter, plain cake and 
ginger snaps, cheese and a pitcher of milk.” 

“ May I give you a cup of tea ? ” 

“ I prefer milk, thank you; I am a country girl. 
May I help you to some oysters, even if you are 
not a traveller ? ” 

“ Will you help yourself, and eat heartily ? ” 

“ I will, thank you.” 

“And now tell me about Vail.” 

Vail was the beginning of a long story; there 
were stories to tell of Ned, Guy, and Baby, and 


SHELTERED. 


141 


questions to be answered about Arch, and Martyn, 
and all the others. Mrs. Ryle was interested in 
Trade’s studies, in Robin’s air-castles, in Celia’s 
winter work, and in all that Nan and Mollie had 
planned for the winter, in mamma’s doings, and in 
papa’s preaching. 

As the church bell sounded Mr. Ryle came to the 
doorway. 

“Why, Miss Electa, how your tongue can fly. 
My mother has a talent for making silent people 
talk. How cosey you look! And, mother, you 
have put somebody in my chair! There will be 
very few at church to-night; I shall be home be- 
fore an hour, probably.” 

He came to his mother’s side and kissed her. 

“Excuse me for being such a big boy,” he said. 

Electa tasted the oysters and talked, tasted the 
peaches and talked, and ate an orange and talked, 
while Mrs. Ryle ate and listened and listened and 
did not eat. 

If The Beehive were not so far away, and if poor 
Cousin Patty were not so ill and expecting her, how 
happy Electa Avould have been ! 

“I want to see your lovely mother,” said Mrs. 
Ryle, “she is the joyful mother of children. How 
she is blessed and honored! My husband was a 
merchant, he lost his health through overdue devo- 
tion to business, we travelled in Europe the last 
two- years of his life. It was in Italy that I lost 
my sight and in Italy that my boy was born. We 
buried papa there, and I came home a sightless 


142 


ELECTA, 


widow, with a child not a year old. That was over 
thirty years ago. David and I have never been 
separated; we boarded together all through his 
studies. My boy is old and grave for his years, 
his wife will bring his youth back. He never 
replies when I say that to him. In the first year 
of his preaching he had a sore trial, poor boy. He 
was to be married, but the lady changed her mind ; 
she said that his heart was too much in his work, 
that she was not fitted to be a minister’s wife, that 
she could not be happy with him, but that if he 
would study law or medicine, she would keep her 
engagement.” 

“ Oh, how wicked ! How could she ? ” cried 
Electa, with indignant eyes. 

“ There was not even a struggle ; he gave her up 
so quietly that she declared that he had not loved 
her. But he grew old after that; I never had to 
chide him again for being too full of fun.” 

“Wasn’t she fitted to be a minister’s wife?” 
asked Electa. 

“What do you think?” 

“ Couldn’t she learn to be ? ” 

“She shortly afterward married an old physician, 
a rich man ; probably she thought herself fitted to 
be his wife. David is genial enough, now, but so 
grave; he works and studies, and takes so little 
recreation.’ 

“Was she pretty?” asked Electa, interestedly. 

“That’s a girl’s question,” answered Mrs. Kyle, 
smiling; “she was tall and fine looking, a brunette, 


SHELTERED, 


143 


with wonderful eyes, as stately as a queen ; the stu- 
dents called her Queen Isabel. My poor boy, my 
heart broke for liim ; he threw himself down at my 
feet and cried, ‘ 0, mother, mother ! ’ It was the first 
time that I could not comfort him. He loved his 
Master best; he forsook all to follow Him.” 

From that hour David Eyle became a hero to 
Electa ; nay, more than a hero — a saint. 

As they arose from the table Mrs. Kyle said, “ I 
suppose you know that you will have something to 
bear at Miss Westlake’s.” 

“Mother was there last week,” said Electa, “she 
prepared me for some things. I think I know 
what to expect.” 

Poor child, what will you do for young life ? 
you have had your being among so much that was 
young and alive, how will you thrive ? It would 
be hard for you to be here with David and me — but 
there! Do you know how to make the best of 
things ? ” 

“ No, ma’am,” said Electa sadly. 

They crossed the hall and passed through the front 
parlor into the back parlor ; Mrs. Ryle reseated her 
self in her plush chair and asked Electa to sit on 
the rug at her feet. There Mr. Ryle found them 
some time later; the black figure with its placid 
face and unseeing eyes, and the little blue figure at 
her feet with the fair head against her knee. They 
were talking about making the best of things. 
Heart had spoken to heart; these two had adopted 
each other. 


144 


ELECTA, 


“ Shall Electa give you your tea, my son ? ” 

“No; but she may bring me an orange and a 
cracker. Will you serve me, Miss Electa?” he asked 
drawing a chair to his mother’s side. 

“ Thank you, with pleasure,” she said. She had 
forgotten that she was among strangers. After 
the orange had been eaten and Mr. Eyle had given 
his mother the names of those who were at service 
she said, “We will have worship so that our trav- 
eller may retire ; she wishes to start very early in 
the morning, I suspect.” 

“ We will start at dawn, if you say so. Miss 
Electa; that reminds me, the doctor was at church; 
he said that he had told you about Miss Patty, 
mother; there may be a change for the better, but 
he thinks it scarcely possible. She is conscious; 
she told him that a little girl was coming soon; 
she took cold — she has pneumonia — in putting a 
room in order for you. Miss Electa; she told the 
doctor all about it, that the rag carpet was of her 
own making, and asked him to go in and look at 
the room. It was very touching, he said, to see 
the things they have gathered together.” 

“ Oh, I want to go,” cried Electa. “ I wish that 
I could go to-night ! ” 

“If she is dying, you can do her no good to- 
night; and, if she live, you will be with her in 
the morning,” said Mrs. Ryle; “you are too weary 
yourself to take that drive to-night.” 

Electa was silent, she could not press her will. 

“ Isn’t that reasonable ? ” asked Mr. Ryle. 


SHELTERED. 


145 


“ Yes, sir,” assented Electa, with her heart cry- 
ing out: “Oh, I do want to go to-night.” 

“We will go into the study for worship,” said 
Mrs. Ryle rising. 

Such a study! Electa stood on the threshold 
and looked around; the room was small, crowded, 
packed, piled with books ; it was heated by a wood 
fire in an open Franklin ; there were two large win- 
dows opposite each other, the white shades were 
down ; Electa wondered what the view might be ; 
there were two easy chairs and a lounge, a table 
covered with every thing, a reading and writing 
desk, strewn with papers and magazines, two large 
portraits hung over the mantel, and an engraving 
of Christ blessing the little children stood upon 
the top of a low bookcase between a bust of Mil- 
ton and one of Shakspeare. At her first confused 
glance Electa saw all this ; Mr. Ryle smiled at the 
expression of her face. 

“ I have the care of this room ; it looks like it, 
doesn’t it ? ” 

“ I know what chaos is now,” said Electa. 
“Wouldn’t you like it put in order?” 

“It is in prime order; I know where every 
thing is.” 

“ Every thing is everywhere, I think.” 

Mrs. Ryle sat down upon the lounge and drew 
Electa down beside her. Mr. Ryle seated himself 
at his desk and opened the Bible ; the light from the 
student lamp fell upon his face. He was not so old 
as she had imagined, but he must be over thirty, 


146 


ELECTA, 


and over thirty was aged to her seventeen years; 
he was not handsome; the hair upon his temples 
was iron gray, his eyes were large and gentle and 
very dark, the large mouth was almost stern, — she 
wondered what kept it from being wholly stern, — 
cheeks, chin and upper lip were smooth ; it was a 
face with no beauty of form or coloring, a face ex- 
pressive of intellect, spirituality, and character. 
Electa felt this, she could not put it into words. 
It was a face that might fitly belong to her saint. 

“We are reading in course,” he said, turning the 
leaves of the Bible ; “ to-night we learn how Peter 
was guided in a doubtful way by God’s word, by 
His Spirit, by His providence. He was moved to 
do His good pleasure by this threefold command, 
each agreeing with the other, each witnessing that 
the other was from God. We, also, may have His 
word. His Spirit, and His providence, the one will 
interpret the other, therefore we do not doubt that 
He is leading us; our way need not be a doubtful 
way. It is never wrong to stand still until we 
are told where to go, how to go, and what to go 
for. Cornelius was sent to Peter as well as Peter 
to Cornelius. God spoke to each and each under- 
stood. God speaks so plainly that we never need 
misunderstand. The prepared word is alway ready 
for the prepared heart.” 

Electa listened, almost holding her breath. Be- 
fore she slept she must confess to Mr. Eyle about 
finding in the Bible the words, “And it shall come 
to pass.” 


SHELTERED, 


147 


“ Peter was praying when God spoke to him ; a 
praying heart is ever a listening heart. If we 
seek to know His will that we may do it and do 
it for His sake and not for our own selfishness, 
we may be sure that He will speak to us.” 

Was she going to Cousin Patty’s for selfishness ? 

If she went to-night would it be selfishness ? 

She listened eagerly to every word that Mr. Kyle 
read, and followed with all her heart the words of 
his simple, earnest prayer. 

Rising from her knees, she lifted down a heavy 
book from the book-shelves over the lounge, and 
stood looking through it as she tried to summon 
courage to speak to Mr. Ryle about the thing that 
she had done. ^ 

“ Excuse me,” said Mrs. Ryle, “ I wish to speak 
to Mercy.” 

Could she tell him? Would he think such a 
little thing worth listening to ? He had opened a 
book and was apparently absorbed in it, leaning his 
head upon his hand. After an instant’s hesitation 
she moved towards him with the heavy book in 
her hand. For two long moments he did not raise 
his eyes ; then she timidly laid her hand upon his 
book. 

“ I am going away to-morrow, and I want to ask 
you something. I want to tell you about some- 
thing that I did. May I interrupt you ? ” 

He took the book from her hand, and seated her 
in his chair, and brought another to her side. 

“Well,” he said encouragingly. 


148 


ELECTA. 


It was not a long story, but it seemed to her 
long and hard to tell ; she told him about the light 
that she had taken for a sign and about looking in 
the Bible. 

“Was I very wicked? ” she asked tremulously. 

“ You were very much mistaken. God does not 
send such signs to guide us.” 

“ He gave the Israelites a light to shine on the 
way.” 

“ He gives to each of us just the word that we 
need; you have your reason, you have His word, 
and His Spirit, you do not need a sign ; you have 
all the truth that your father and mother have 
taught you. His truth is written in His word just 
for you, to suit your every emergency. Not what 
God will bring to pass for you, but what He will 
have you do is all that you have to take thought 
about. You must seek His will in His way; His 
way is through prayer and through the prayerful, 
diligent study of His word, especially the words of 
Jesus. It was right for you to stay at home, it 
was right, if your father and mother willed it so, 
for you to leave home. God does care whether 
you stayed or whether you came ; He could make it 
work for good either way. He could bless you in 
staying or coming. It was not such a great mat- 
ter, after all, as you were thinking; to love God 
best and most and first of all is the great business 
of life ; do not be too much concerned about going 
or staying, except as it involves a question of 
obedience or disobedience. You were a little too 


SHELTERED, 


149 


much concerned, and you took a wrong way to 
know God’s mind about it. He has opened a way 
for you to do good to somebody, to serve those old 
people for His sake — ” 

“Not only, I want the money,” interrupted Electa, 
hastily, with burning cheeks. 

“ But you want the money for an unselfish rea- 
son,” he answered smiling. The smile sweetened 
all the sternness out of his lips. 

“Yes, I think Ido.” 

“Your mistakes were through ignorance.” 

She drew a sigh of relief. 

“ Think about our Lord, His life, and His teach- 
ings, and forget about yourself ; you think of Him 
and He will think of you.” 

“ I can’t think about myself any more ; I prom- 
ised papa that I would think about the things out- 
side of myself” 

“ Then why isn’t your trouble all gone ? What 
are your eyes so big about ? ” 

“ Because — because — I suppose it is foolish, but 
I’m so afraid that Cousin Patty will die and I shall 
not speak to her.” 

“ And you would rather go to her to-night ? ” 

“ I would rather, but — ” 

“Then you shall go. Gypsy is tired with her 
long drive to-day, but I’ll get another horse; run 
upstairs and wrap yourself up ; it isn’t such a fear- 
ful storm as mother thinks it is.” 

“ But she will not like it if I go.” 

“Yes, she will. I’ll explain how you feel about 


150 


ELECTA. 


it. Wrap up well; haven’t you something beside 
that waterproof? ” 

“ I have a shawl in my trunk.” 

“ I’ll speak to mother, and then go out for a 
horse. You are not afraid of the dark ? ” 

“ I shall not be afraid; you are very good to me, 
Mr. Eyle.” 

“Am I? Wait until I do something to prove 
it.” 

The blue merino was taken off and the brown 
alpaca and waterproof put on ; the articles that she 
had taken out of her trunk repacked, and she 
stood in the lower hall veiled, and shawled, ready 
to start. She would not sleep in the pretty cham- 
ber after all. 

“You are pleased with me, Mrs. Eyle?” she 
asked, when she took her into her arms to say 
good-night. “You are not displeased with me.” 

“Not at all, dear. David would not take you 
unless he thought it wise. I shall come to you as 
soon as the storm is over.” Out into the rain and 
darkness Electa went for the second time that 
night. Mrs. Eyle went back to the fire in the back 
parlor, sent Mercy to bed, and sat down to watch 
for her son’s return. 

“The child has hardships and loneliness before 
her,” she said to herself. 


VIII. 


IN DAEK AND LIGHT. 

“ It is very dark,” said Electa, with a slight trem- 
bling of voice. 

“About as dark as it ever is, I think. But your 
eyes will soon become accustomed to it, and then 
you can see something.” 

“ I can’t see any thing now; I can’t even see the 
horse.” 

“I can, and some other things beside.” 

“ Shall we pass any houses ? ” 

“Not many after we leave Swanzey, unless we 
pass through Walnut Grove, and I think I will; 
the road is better. You may trust me. I know 
every inch of the road for miles around. Miss 
Westlake’s house is in the loneliest place within 
five miles of us, and yet it is very charming. I 
knew the house when I was a boy; they used to 
tell stories even then about the two queer old 
ladies who lived behind the stone-wall. Little 
did 1 think that I’d ever take there on a stormy 
night a little girl who was not then born.” 

“This is one of the things that I was born for, I 
expect,” said Electa, throwing back her veil that 


152 


ELECTA. 


she might feel the air upon her burning cheeks. 
“I hope that I shall do all the things that I was 
born to do.’’ 

“By ‘born to do,’ do you mean the doings that 
God had in His heart for you to do, when He sent 
you into the world ? ” 

“Yes, that is a lovely way to put it; do you 
think I shall do them ? ” she asked anxiously. “ I’m 
afraid that I haven’t begun yet.” 

“ I am sure that you will do them, if you do not 
hinder yourself or allow others to hinder you.” 

“I don’t like to go contrary,” she said. 

“ To what ? To whom ? ” he asked. 

“To people and things.” 

“God bids us to, oftentimes.” 

“That is what I don’t understand, Mr. Eyle; 
that is what I want to understand. I don’t know 
when God speaks to me.” 

“Then you can’t be expected to listen.” 

“ But I want to know,” she said eagerly. 

“Then you surely will know.” 

Mr. Eyle gave his attention to the horse for the 
first half mile, speaking to her but once and then 
to ask if she were comfortable. 

“Very comfortable, and so safe,” she answered. 

Very safe she felt all the long dark way; she 
was comfortably seated, wrapped in a shawl, with 
a warm lap robe tucked in around her, leaning 
against the cushioned back, with her feet upon the 
iron foot-rest and her hands folded together under 
her shawl. It was not very cold; wind and rain 


IN DARK AND LIGHT, 


153 


were behind them, and as her eyes became used 
to the darkness she could distinctly discern the 
horse and the outlines of dark objects on both sides 
of the way. Above and below all was deep black- 
ness. She would have been altogether comfort- 
able and happy had she been driving toward The 
Beehive instead of away from it. 

“If Cousin Patty is dead, Cousin Jane will need 
me all the more,” she said; “she will be glad to 
see one of her people when she feels all alone; 
perhaps she will miss her sister so that she will 
die, too. Mr. Eyle, I am so sorry to trouble you, 
it seems very selfish in me, but I had to come and 
there was no one to come with but you.” 

“ I am very glad to come. Miss Electa.” 

“Have you driven far to-day?” 

“About twenty miles.” 

“ Are you very tired ? ” she asked anxiously. 

“Not so very,” he answered, smiling at her tone. 
“What can I do to assure you that I am not a 
martyr ? ” 

“ Yoii are very good to me; I didn’t know that 
there were people like you and your mother out in 
the world.” 

“How long have you been out in the world?” 

“Ever since six o’clock this morning; papa and 
Celia and Vail went with me to the train, they all 
kissed me good-by, and then I was out in the 
world.” 

“Nearly sixteen hours. In another hour you 
will be out of the world again.” 


154 


ELECTA, 


“No, I shall not. I shall stay out in the world 
now. Papa wrote in niy new blank book, ‘ Look 
out, and not in,’ and I am not to write at all about 
myself. He named it for me — we always name 
our journals, we girls — ‘Out in God’s World,’ we 
give them to papa and mamma when they are full 
for their wedding present. Mollie and Martyn 
gave theirs on their last anniversary, and Celia 
and I give ours this year. How shall I keep from 
filling mine with myself? ” 

“Never think about yourself, think about every 
thing you find out in God’s world.” 

“ I expect they haven’t many books, and I had 
so little room to bring mine.” 

“ What did you bring ? ” 

“‘Adelaide Proctor’s Poems’ and ‘Mrs. Hemans.’ 
Some old school-books that I want to study, a 
slate and some pencils, and several story-books.” 

“Not an extensive library. I shall have to ask 
John Gray to take to you the books of mine that 
he has finished studying and reading. John Gray 
is an excellent student.” 

“Who is John Gray?” 

“Somebody out in God’s world that is worth 
knowing. He is one of my boys. He is nobody’s 
boy, so I took him for mine. He never knew his 
father nor mother, he has no brothers nor sisters, 
not a relative in the world that he is aware of; he 
was found when an infant on the steps of the 
county house. Would you like to know such a 
waif as that ? ” 


IN DARK AND LIGHT, 


155 


“I don’t know, — he must have good blood or he 
wouldn’t be a student.” 

“ His blood is good enough for me ; he is a gen- 
tleman, he is a Christian, and he promises to be a 
scholar. ‘John’ was written upon a piece of his 
under-clothing, and his eyes were so gray that 
they named him Gray. He is only a farm hand, 
at present.” 

“ What does he intend to be in the future ? ” 

“He has not decided. I try not to influence 
him.” 

“ How old is he ? ” 

“He calls Christmas Day his birthday; he will 
be seventeen next Christmas.” 

“He is younger than I am.” 

“And appears about ten years older; his life has 
all been out in the world, out in the hard world ; 
he has suffered every thing that you have been 
saved from ; you are a little hot-house flower and 
he is a sturdy sapling. I want you to see John 
Gray, I want him to see you; I will send him to 
you with books.” 

“ Where does he live ? ” 

“At a farm-house that we shall pass; he has 
been there two years, but expects to leave this fall, 
because Mr. Morris is not willing that he should 
attend school. The schoolmaster is always John’s 
friend. Mother admires John. She knits his 
stockings, and does many things for him.” 

“I wish — I wish — ” sighed Electa, “that I could 
know things. I am the ignorant one at home; I 


156 


ELECTA, 


have been to school very little ; all I have done was 
to read every thing I could find.” 

“What are you interested in — chiefiy ? ” 

“Just now I am interested in words." 

“If you know words you will ‘know things.’ 
“It is said that there are cases in which knowl- 
edge of more value may be conveyed by the history 
of words than by the history of a campaign. Lan- 
guage has been called fossil poetry and fossil his- 
tory. Do you know who the Saxons were ? ” 

“They were a people who lived in the northern 
part of Germany; they invaded and conquered 
England, not alone, but with other tribes, in 
the fifth and sixth centuries,” answered Electa 
promptly. 

“How much of our strong mother-tongue we 
owe to them ! Sun, moon, stars, earth, water, fire, 
and the prime social relations, — father, mother, 
husband, wife, son, daughter, — are all Saxon. Pal- 
ace and castle may have come from the Norman, but 
the dear old words: house, roof, home, hearth, we 
owe to the humbler Saxon. The names of almost 
all animals as long as they are alive are Saxon, 
but when prepared for the table become Norman; 
for the Saxon hind had the labor of tending and 
feeding them for the table of his Norman lord. 
You know about the Normans coming over to 
England?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Electa interestedly, forgetting 
for the moment that the horse’s head was turned 
away from The Beehive. 


IN DARK AND LIGHT. 


157 


“Thus Saxon ox became Norman beef, Saxon 
calf the Norman veal, Saxon sheep the Norman 
mutton. I’ll get ‘ Th^ Early Dawn ’ for you, that 
is a story of Saxon and Norman. You haven’t 
read it?” 

“No, sir.” 

“The origin of the word heathen is suggestive. 
At the introduction of Christianity into Germany 
the dwellers upon the heaths longest resisted the 
truth, while the more intelligent and learned, in 
the cities, became and were called Christians ; these 
heath people, who kept to their own worship, were 
called heathen. The gospel of Christ found its 
way first in Germany in the homes of the more 
refined and learned. By the common phrase ‘sign- 
ing ’ our name we are kept in memory of the time 
when the rudiments of education were confined to 
the very learned; it was not as now, the excep- 
tion, but the custom for persons to make their sign 
or mark instead of writing their names ; great bar- 
ons and kings were not ashamed to set their sign 
to the most important documents. Imagine Char- 
lemagne making his mark. Expend^ expense^' he 
went on in an easy tone, “ remind us that money 
was once weighed out and not counted as at pres- 
ent. Abram weighed out four hundred shekels of 
money current with the merchant. The word expend 
means to weigh out.” 

Electa’s eyes were sparkling all by themselves 
there in the dark. To “know things” was one 
of the aims of her life. 


158 


ELECTA, 


“Do go on, please,” she cried earnestly. 

Mr. Eyle smiled all to himself there in the 
dark. 

^'‘Library preserves for us the fact that books 
were once written upon the barks of trees, and, 
at a later period, we have paper, from the Egyp- 
tian papyrus, ‘the paper reeds by the brooks.’ 
Moffat gives a remarkable example of the disap- 
pearing of one of the most significant words from 
the language of a tribe in South Africa, a tribe 
sinking deeper and deeper in barbarism ; with the 
word of course disappeared the truth of which 
that word was the vehicle. The word was Mo- 
rimo^ designating the Supreme Divine Being, mean- 
ing ‘ Him that is above.’ This word with its spir- 
itual idea he found to have vanished from the 
present generation; although here and there he 
met with an aged man, hardly one or two in a 
thousand, who remembered in his early youth to 
have heard the word il/oWmo.” 

“Perhaps the mothers taught it to the little 
children long ago,” said Electa. 

“This word, once so full of meaning, survives 
now only in the spells and charms of their rain- 
makers and sorcerers.” 

“No wonder that they sink lower and lower,” 
replied Electa ; “ we never, never can lose our dear- 
est Name.” 

“ A Jesuit missionary,” continued Mr. Eyle, “tells 
us that in two of the principal tribes of Brazil he 
could not find any word corresponding to our 


IN DARK AND LIGHT. 


159 


word thanks. In this absence lay the explana- 
tion of the fact that these tribes were inveterate 
askers, but never showed any gratitude for what 
they obtained, - merely saying, ‘This is what I 
wanted,’ or, ‘ This will be useful to me.’ Did you 
ever think about the word kind? It has a beau- 
tiful origination. We say a kind man and we 
speak of mankind; they seem to be quite different 
words, and yet they are connected by closest 
bonds. A kind person is a kinned person, one of 
kin, one who acknowledges his kinship to all 
others, who confesses that, being of the same 
blood, they have a right to all his rights. Man- 
kind, you see, is man-kinned; the word expresses 
our relationship to the whole human family; you 
are out in the world among your own kin, to give 
to them every evidence of loving kinship that 
your heart may suggest.” 

“And to receive from them, as I am to-night,” 
said Electa gratefully. 

“I am your guardian; your father has given 
you into my especial care.” 

“ I am very glad,” she replied, in a comfortable 
tone. “I like to be guarded.” 

“Do you see that light ahead?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“That is in Walnut Grove, the village is but a 
collection of houses with one store, schoolhouse, 
and church.” 

“There’s somebody coming,” exclaimed Electa, 
“ they are close to us.” 


160 


ELECTA. 


“Good evening,” shouted Mr. Byle; “neighbor, 
am I in your way ? ” 

“ Not at all,” returned a genial voice, “ the road 
is wide enough for us both. It’s as dark as Egypt, 
though.” 

Mr. Ryle turned to the right and drove more 
slowly. “ Somebody is sick to-night,” he said, 
“that’s old Dr. Requa.” 

“Perhaps he’s been to see Cousin Patty,” said 
Electa. “ I wish we had asked him how she was.” 

“ He seldom goes out at night, he’s old and 
rich.” 

The rain dashed against the back of the buggy, 
the wind blew around them, but not in their 
faces; stretching out her hand Electa could have 
touched her companion’s arm or shoulder ; as it was, 
not seeing him or touching him at all, he was 
only a presence and a voice, a restful, guarding, 
comforting presence, and the voice of one whom 
she could believe in — and that day not so very 
long ago she had run away from such a friend as 
this! He was her own kin, she had recognized 
his kinship that night that he had prayed for her. 

“I never was out at night in a storm before,” 
she said, bending forward to look up and down 
and around. The light was in the upper chamber 
of a small house; there was no shade to the one 
window; a woman stood before it looking out. 

“Perhaps she is watching for some one who 
will never come,” said Electa. 

“ Then she may learn to take God who always 


IN DARK AND LIGHT, 


161 


is come,” replied Mr. Eyle. “ He never disap- 
points.” 

Electa could not reply to this. She thought of ■ 
Celia, wondering how she lived with so much gone 
out of her life. Not knowing Celia’s consolation, 
Celia’s sorrow seemed unbearable to her. 

“ Do you remember my sister Celia ? ” she asked 
suddenly. 

“ Indeed I do,” was the quick answer. 

“ She has had a great trouble, and she’s just as 
bright as ever, — we couldn’t do any thing without 
Celia. She never forgets any thing, and — she’s so 
sure about things. I want something good to 
come to her.” 

He did not reply to her last words; perhaps 
there was nothing in them that held a reply ; he 
was driving slowly, giving all his care to his horse. 

Electa was hurt because he did not echo her 
wish. But how could he think about Celia just as 
she did ? It was bedtime at home. The Beehive 
was fast asleep, all but Celia, she always found 
some last things to do. Tired Celia was writing 
a long letter to her in that very hour ; in that very 
hour that something good was coming to her. 

Electa knew that they had all prayed for her be- 
fore they slept. Would mamma be anxious if she 
knew that she was out in such a storm ? It was 
good to be out in the storm and feel safe ; to feel 
safe because of God and because of the human pro- 
tector that He had found for her. 

The horse’s hoofs suddenly touched a bridge. 


162 


ELECTA, 


Electa started and exclaimed, “ Why, we are 
near water.” 

“A small stream; now I can talk again. We 
are almost there. You will gather pond lilies on 
this stream sometime. There’s an old saw-mill 
here that makes quite a landscape.” 

Almost there, and what would she meet when 
she did get there? A strange, dead face and a 
strange, living face ! She would shrink almost as 
much from the living face as from the dead face. 
There would be dark night and sleeping alone to 
awake to more strangeness; to awake to six long 
months. At that instant all her courage vanished; 
she trembled from head to foot, and but for her 
habit of self-restraint would have cried out in her 
agony. If she might only see them all for one 
moment, one little moment; it was like dying, to 
leave them so, dying a^ 1 not going to heaven. 
The convulsive sobs in h j throat uttered no sound ; 
j in all the hardness that c ame afterward there was 
nothing so hard as tho c moment. I It passed, and 
she breathed more fre» ly; in another moment she 
thought that she would have died. 

“Well, what now?” exclaimed Mr. Eyle, sud- 
denly and quickly drawing the rein. “Electa, I 
must get out; I believe that trace is broken.” 

“Broken! Can’t we go on? What shall we 
do ? ” cried Electa in as lively a voice as if she had 
not been hiding herself inside of herself. 

“Take the lines, please; hold them just so, 
don’t move them either way,” he said, placing 


IN DARK AND LIGHT. 


163 


them in her hand as he cautiously sprang to the 
ground. 

“ Are we near any house ? ” asked Electa, bend- 
ing forward on the side nearer Mr. Eyle. 

“One of the traces has broken; I couldn’t mend 
it here in the dark even if I had material with me; 
but we are not far from Mr. Morris’s. I am glad 
that I came this way ; don’t feel anxious ; I’ll lead 
the horse ; you sit still, there’s nothing else for you 
to do.” 

The reassuring voice sounded out of the rain 
and the darkness. 

“ I can do nothing to perfection,” she answered 
laughing. 

“T hat i s a rare gift,” he said, moving to the 
horse’s heal 

Suppose they could not go on? suppose they 
had to stay somewhere all night? She would 
rather walk the remainder of the way than do 
that. Had she been headstrong in her persist- 
ence about coming? 

“ Mr. Eyle — ” she began. But he could not hear. 
The horse was taking long, slow steps. Mr. Eyle 
was somewhere ont there in the dark. 

“ Mr. Eyle,” she began again, but talking to him 
was not doing nothing, so she kept still. 

A turn in the road revealed a light, she uttered 
a joyful exclamation. In several moments they 
stood before the friendly light; the light was in 
the kitchen in the wing and streamed out upon a 
bare yard. 


164 


ELECTA. 


“The horse will stand,” said Mr. Eyle, leading 
him up to a hitching post, “ will you go in ? ” 

“Oh, no; I prefer to sit here,” she said excitedly 
not feeling equal to meeting another stranger to- 
night. 

She looked out watching him as he emerged 
into the light. It was pleasant to see his face 
again after the long darkness. He ascended the 
two steps and knocked loudly at the door. There 
was a sound as of a chair being moved upon a bare 
floor and then the door was opened; in the door- 
way stood a tall boy with a lamp in his hand. He 
was very tall and broad-shouldered, with a dark, 
thin, grave face, with very black hair piled away 
from a fine forehead ; his voice as he replied to Mr. 
Eyle arrested and riveted her ^attention ; it was a 
self-contained voice ; she would recognize the voice, 
should she hear it again, more readily than the 
face. Could that be Mr. Eyle's friend, John Gray ? 
She would be disappointed if he were not. So 
intent was she in watching his face and think- 
ing of his voice that she did not listen to the 
conversation. 

“ If I can’t find one to fit. I’ll mend yours,” she 
heard him say. 

Mr. Eyle came to the carriage to speak to her. 

“ Will you come in and get warm ? There’s no 
one up but John. He was sitting up to study.” 

“ I’m not cold, thank you.” 

In a few moments John came out with a lantern 
and went into the stable. 


IN DARK AND LIGHT. 


165 


Through the open kitchen door Electa saw the 
blaze from a wood fire, and a pile of books upon 
the table. How many homes there were far away 
from her home! God’s world was a wide place; 
she was beginning not to be afraid to be out in it. 
The world was His large house, and He was the 
Father in it. While her eyes Avere searching the 
pleasant kitchen John returned with the lantern 
and something in his hand. 

“It will just fit,” she heard Mr. Eyle exclaim 
after a busy moment, in which he adjusted the 
trace while John held the lantern. 

“ Are you coming back to-night ? ” 

“Yes, immediately; I am not going far.” 

“Then I will have this mended for you; it will 
saye you the trouble* of returning ours.” 

|‘ It is good to find a friend such a night as this ; 
your light shone out upon us like a good deed in 
a naughty world. ■ Do you knoAV who says that ? ” 
“ Shakspeare. He says about every thing.” 
“John, I wish you to know my friend here, 
Electa Given, and I wish her to know you; sup- 
pose you consider this a friendship ? ” 

John touched his threadbare cap; Electa bowed. 
She Avondered if he had caught a glimpse of her 
face. The light from the lantern flashed over his 
face as he stood in the background; it was a sen- 
sitive, shy face; a proud face, people Avho misun- 
derstood him would call it; she felt so sorry for 
him. What a lonely little boy he must have been 1 
What a lonely big boy he must be now I 


166 


ELECTA. 


“Will you take tins lantern, Mr. Eyle?” he asked, 
stepping towards them as Mr. Kyle seated himself 
in the buggy and took the reins from Electa’s hand. 

“Yes, I believe I will,” he said; “put it in.” 

“He came to the buggy and set it down between 
Mr. Kyle’s feet. The light from it shone over 
Electa, — brown veil, bright shawl, and flushed, sym- 
pathetic face. Both smiled as the gray eyes met 
the blue. 

Years afterward he told her that he had never 
forgotten her first kind look. 

“Don’t you suppose that he will ever find any 
one to belong to ? ” she asked, as they turned into 
the road. 

“I doubt it. He belongs to himself;! like Napo- 
leon he is his own ancestor. Now, Electa, our ad- 
venture is over without any adventure, and we 
have the added safeguard of this lantern. Are you 
anxious to reach the end of your journey ? ” 

“I was, but I am not now; I have left a cer- 
tainty for an uncertainty. I did want to stay in 
that pretty room to-night. Is it far now?” 

“ Not more than a mile.” 

“ Mother said that Cousin Patty was rather still 
and queer, she would not talk at all ; mother was 
there but a few hours ; but when I asked her about 
Cousin Jane she only smiled, and said that I must 
find out for myself So I expect that she’s very 
queer and mamma didn’t like to tell me.” 

“Tlien I will not tell you, either.” 

“Is she cross? Will she be sharp to me?” 


IN DARK AND LIGHT, 


167 


“ She is capable of it, if you give her occasion. 
She is strong willed.” 

“ She must have been to shut herself up for her 
sister’s sake. I have been thinking; I want to ask 
you a question, if I may.” 

“Ask a dozen, if you please,” he returned en- 
couragingly. If Mr. Eyle’s tone were not so cour- 
teous, his words would often have seemed abrupt. 

“ I want to ask you this: how may I know when 
God speaks to me ? ” 

“You know that He speaks to you in the Bible ; 
God’s word we call it. His word to you. Christ 
is God’s word ; all that Christ is in Himself is the 
word of God to you. Christ is God speaking.” 

Electa pondered; then she spoke very earnestly. 

“ But is every word in the Bible meant for me. 
Is every command spoken to me ? ” 

“God said to Noah, ‘Come thou and all thy 
house into the ark.’ Is that spoken to you ? ” 

“No; that’s impossible.” 

“ And the Lord said unto Abraham, ‘ Get out of 
thy country and from thy kindred and from thy 
father’s house.’ Is that spoken to you V ” 

“ That is what I am doing now.” 

“ Are you doing it because God said it to Abra- 
ham?” 

“No; oh, no, indeed,” she replied with a little 
laugh. 

“ God said to Hagar, ‘ What aileth thee, Hagar? 
Is that spoken to you ? ” 

“ No sir.” 


168 


ELECTA. 


“God spoke in Samuel’s ear; is that spoken to 
you ? ” 

“No; but I wish that He would speak in my 
ear.” 

“ The Lord spoke to Paul on his way to Damas- 
cus; is that spoken to you?” 

' “No.” 

“Then a command given to an individual as an 
individual is intended for that individual and not 
intended for you.” 

“ I understand that now.” 

“ Still any command of God revealing the mind 
of God as to the thing to be done under certain cir- 
cumstances may be a guide to you in like circum- 
stances. If you were in doubt what to do, and 
God delayed to answer your prayer, you would not 
go to a pretended witch to learn what would hap- 
pen to you; God’s command concerning such peo- 
ple has made plain to you that He holds them in 
abhorrence. Whenever God speaks He means to 
teach something; what He said to Abraham, to 
Samuel, to Noah teaches you what God is Himself, 
and He speaks always to teach you about Himself, 
as well as to teach you about yourself” 

“I think I understand,” she said slowly. “I need 
not go into the ark, or offer up my son, or leave 
my country, or fight the Philistines, and I am not 
sent to Cornelius, like Peter, or to the Macedonians, 
like Paul.” 

“ There are many commands given to nations as 
nations. Are you commanded to follow the pillar 


IN DARK AND LIGHT, 


169 


of fire or the cloud? To build the tabernacle or 
the temple? To pray that your flight be not in 
winter ? ” 

“ No." 

“You are not a nation, you are not one of the 
individuals composing that nation. The ceremo- 
nial law was meant at that time for that people; 
it is not wrong for you to eat pork, to wear a gar- 
ment made of linen and wool ; you are not unclean 
if you touch the dead; you are not commanded to 
sacrifice a lamb for your sins ; you need not give a 
tithe of all that you possess." 

“I see that; I know that." 

“ But among those old laws God makes known 
His hatred of particular sins, the sins that He 
hates in you; among them you ^\ill find: ‘Thou 
shalt not raise a false report.’ That is meant for 
all people in all ages. ‘ Thou shalt not oppress a 
stranger.’ ‘Ye shall keep my Sabbaths, and rev- 
erence my sanctuary.’ As long as God has Sab- 
baths and sanctuaries we must remember that. 
Oh, the loving-kindness there is in the law ! Ye 
shall not oppress a stranger! Do you see how He 
loves strangers, little stranger ? " 

Electa’s throat was choking and her eyes full. 

“You are not living under the old covenant, but 
under the new covenant, under the promise of for- 
giveness through the blood of Christ; you are a 
disciple of Jesus Christ, and any command ad- 
dressed to a disciple of Jesus Christ is addressed 
to you; any command, any promise, any warning. 


170 


ELECTA. 


any threatening given to the children of God as 
His children, in the Old Testament or the New, is 
given to you; it is God’s voice speaking to you. 
The Lord does not bid you look in the fish’s mouth 
for silver as He bade Peter; but fishing was Peter’s 
usual way of getting money; so you may learn, 
not what money may come to you without exer- 
tion, but that God expects you to do your work to 
get money, as Peter did his, and that when you do 
your part He will do His. He does not bid you 
come to Him on the water, as He bade Peter; but 
should He bid you do any thing as impossible, like 
Peter, you must try. You are not Peter, you are 
Electa Given; and sometimes when He speaks to 
Peter He means only Peter, as that night on the 
water. He meant Peter only, and not James or 
John; but sometimes when He speaks to Peter, He 
means you and all His other disciples. When Pie 
told Peter to forgive his brother seventy times 
seven. He meant you and me also. He does not 
bid you follow a man bearing a pitcher of wa- 
ter and to prepare the passover, but He bids you 
learn from this how His care and knowledge ex- 
tend to all; how He counted that man’s footsteps, 
so that he should be on that spot at that particular 
moment; He knew that he would take a pitcher 
and not any thing else to carry the water, so He 
knows all your steps and every thing that you 
take into your hand. You are not to go to St. 
Paul, and take his cloak and his parchments, as he 
bade Timothy do; but you are to present your 


IN DARK AND LIGHT. 


171 


body a living sacrifice, as St. Paul bids you, and 
all Christians do. You can not receive Phoebe, 
greet Mary, salute Andronicus and Junia, or Try- 
phena and Tryphosa, or Urbane or Herodian, or 
do any thing for the household of Narcissus, as St. 
Paul bids the Komans; but you can greet Chris- 
tians lovingly, all the Marys and Phoebes and Ur- 
banes that you find out in the world.” 

“I do begin to understand; it is clear to me,” 
said Electa joyfully. 

“ Sometime we will have a talk about how God 
speaks to us by His Spirit and His providences. 
You will see that God speaks every hour to each 
of us.” 

Her cheeks burned with the remembrance of her 
thoughts about the light in the hall and that fool- 
ish, ignorant way of opening the Bible at random. 
How could she ever have done such a thing ? 

“ Mr. Ryle,” she said, after a moment, in a husky 
voice, does God let us make mistakes and 

do foolish things?^ 

“That is one of His methods of teaching. We 
do not know ourselves, we must be taught about 
ourselves. It is not enough to tell us that we are 
foolish and ignorant and weak, we must be made 
to feel it, to acknowledge it. Did God never teach 
you any thing by allovfing you to make a mistake ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed, I feel so hurt, so hu- 

miliated to think that I could do such things^)) 

“A little child learns to walk carefully by being 
permitted to run alone and fall down; by reason 


172 


ELECTA. 


of use we grow. If you have learned His lessons, 
then God has spoken to you through your mis- 
takes; He has spoken, anyway, whether you have 
learned or not. He was speaking while you were 
thinking that He was silent towards you. He is 
always speaking, and always listening. 

“ ‘ Of all idoltary the sum 

Is worshipping a God both deaf and dumb.* 

I worship a God who speaks — do you ? 

“I know He speaks; but I haven’t learned how 
to listen yet.” 

“ You are learning.” 

“Yes, I am learning,” she said, thinking that 
God was speaking to her in all that bewildered, 
unhappy time, and she had been too confused, too 
full of herself to listen. She could not talk so 
easily with the light revealing her face and his ; in 
the darkness, he had been a spiritual presence, she 
could speak to his heart; but his face was a little 
strange to her still. After a lengthened pause she 
said, “ Will it rain to-morrow ? I want the sun to 
shine.” 

“ I think it will rain.” 

“ I don’t like to think of to-morrow. I wonder 
if I can get to the post-office.” 

“There will be no need. Your letters will come 
to Walnut Grove ? ” . 

“ Yes; mother decided that that would be best.” 

“John Gray will be glad to bring them to you 
as long as he remains where he is.” 


IN DARK AND LIGHT, 


173 


“ I don’t like to trouble him.” 

“ Ask him in and talk to him about books, and 
he will be more than repaid. Not to-morrow, but 
the day after, no that will be Sunday ; you can not 
have a letter until Monday night; the stage arrives 
at half past five.” 

“ Not till Monday night ? ” she said in a tone of 
quiet endurance, wondering how she could go to 
sleep so many nights without her letter. 

“ Do you see that light, back from the road, at 
your right, upstairs and down at the back of the 
house ? That is your destination.” 

For one moment she shut her eyes, she was not 
quite ready to be there; the journey had seemed 
long, but the end had come suddenly; then with 
a shiver all along her nerves she unclosed her eyes 
and looked; there it stood, her prison, her dungeon. 
A harmless looking brick house of three stories, 
standing upon a slight eminence back from the 
road ! 

“ It is a double house, there’s a wide hall in the 
centre with large rooms upon either side, very few 
of them are used, I believe, the others are locked 
up ; there’s a sitting-room and kitchen in use down- 
stairs and their sleeping room upstairs. If they 
would open the windows and let in the light it 
would be the cheeriest house around. Dr. Kequa 
says that when he was a young man that house 
was the life of the neighborhood. Eeport says 
that he was once engaged to Miss Jane.” 

“ Is he married now ? ” 


174 


ELECTA. 


“Yes, to a lady many years his junior — Isabel 
Grace was thirty and he was nearly sixty when he 
married her.” 

Isabel Grace ! That must be Queen Isabel. How 
people’s lives were interwoven ! 

“ I hardly know how to get in ; the large iron 
gate is never opened, so that I can not drive in, 
and I fear that I can not find a hitching post any- 
where. I can not leave the horse. I don't wan’t 
to let you go in alone.” 

“ I can do it,” she said bravely. 

“You may take the lantern ; you couldn’t stum- 
ble up that path alone and in the dark. I know 
the way so well that I do not need it ; I took it for 
your sake more than for mine. Are you cold, or 
tired, or wet ? ” 

“No; I am not any thing.” 

“ I want to go in, too ; I’ll find some place to 
hitch. I’ll leave you at the gate, and see what I can 
do.” 

The small, rickety, front gate had been left open ; 
she stood near it while he looked around for the 
place to hitch his horse. 

The rain fell upon her face as she stood trem- 
bling, leaning against the gate-post; it was pleas- 
ant to feel its coolness on her burning cheeks — it 
was the touch of a friend; the rain in this strange 
country was like the rain at home. Having found 
what he sought, lantern in hand, with his hat 
pressed down over his forehead, Mr. Ryle came 
back to her. With her arm within that of her old 


IN DARK AND LIGHT, 


175 


new friend, the oldest friend she had within a 
hundred miles, she walked up the long path to 
the house. All the front of the house was dark. 

“There are several steps here, and a long pi- 
azza, handsome double doors, and a big brass 
knocker. I shall disturb her if I knock; you stand 
on the piazza, and I’ll go around to the back of 
the house and find some one to open the door 
for you.” 

“Very well,” she assented. 

Standing there in the dark on the piazza, a 
wet, trembling little figure, faint-hearted enough 
to sink to the ground, she moaned: “JPlease make 
me a blessing to this house ; I don’t know how to 
do it myself^ 

Very soon, too soon, there were slow steps in the 
hall, and then a fumbling and fussing at the door. 

“ Push,” cried a voice inside, a quavering voice, 
but with a tone of command in it. 

Electa pushed, the door opened suddenly, and she 
stood face to face with — somebody. Not Cousin 
Jane, it could not be Cousin Jane, for Cousin Jane 
was tall and sharp and thin, with a sharp face 
and a sharp voice, and her dress was ugly and — 
This figure was tall and full and as straight 
as an arrow, with the sweetest, dearest, old face, 
with soft brown eyes, and white hair curling about 
the forehead; her dress was dark gray, of some 
plain material, not trimmed at all, closely fitting, 
with a white linen ruffie at the throat ; the abun- 
dant white hair was not covered with a cap, but 


176 


ELECTA, 


arranged in a heavy French twist; the hair that 
had escaped at her neck curling as prettily as 
it curled over her forehead. She stood with her 
hands folded looking down at Electa. She saw 
a troubled face with a perplexed, grieved look in 
her eyes. 

Electa could not speak. She would give any^ 
thing if this were Cousin Jane. 

“ My poor little girl, did you come in the storm? ” 
exclaimed the old lady, taking Electa into her arms. 

“I wish that you were Cousin Jane,” faltered 
Electa. 

“ Why, who else should I be ? Did you think 
that I was Patty ? ” 

“ I thought you were a neighbor,” laughed Electa 
hysterically ; “ I am so glad that you are Cousin 
jkne.” 

“ Poor little, storm-beaten bird, come in and be 
warm and safe.” 

And for the second time that night Electa felt 
safe. 

“ How is Cousin Patty? ” 

“ Almost gone home,” said the sweet, quavering 
voice. 

“ I am so sorry.” 

“And I am so glad; she has been homesick 
over half a century.” 

Miss Westlake closed the door, locked and bolted 
it, while Electa stood still, looking around. The 
hall was dimly lighted by two candles in tall brass 
candlesticks standing upon a round table, the broad 


IN DARK AND LIGHT, 


177 


stairs were covered with a bright, dark carpet, two 
large dark doors on each side of the hall were 
closed, at the end of the hall a door stood open 
revealing a lighted room. 

“ I shall not have the heart-ache from loneliness 
any longer,” said Miss Westlake. “I have been 
thirty years in persuading Patty to let me have 
somebody with me, and once persuaded she was 
as eager as I to have you come.” 

Mr. Ryle came towards them from the lighted 
room. “ I suppose that I may go now, you have 
no further need of me.” 

“ I suppose I must let you go. How can I thank 
you, Mr. Ryle ? ” 

“By being as happy as you can. Was Dr. Requa 
here to-night. Miss Westlake?” 

“Yes; I sent for him. I knew that it would do 
no good, but I want to think that I did all I could 
for her. Electa, go into the sitting-room. I’ll be 
down presently,” said Cousin Jane. 

“ Isn’t she lovely ? ” cried Electa enthusiastically, 
following Mr. Ryle into the sitting-room. “And 
what a comfortable old room this is ! Every thing 
in it looks a hundred years old.” 

“ They have furnished it for you, I see ; it was 
very unlike this the last time I called. Jane has 
favored every whim of her sister’s, and one whim 
was never to change any thing. That clock has 
stood in that corner fifty years. But I must go; 
I’ll come in to-morrow. Miss Jane may have need 
of my services; good-night.” 


178 


ELECTA. 


“ Good-night, and thank you again,” said Electa. 

“ I’ll go out as I came in,” said Mr. Ryle, taking 
up his lantern. 

“Tell your mother that I am glad I came.” 

“ It was none too soon, if she has waited thirty 
years for you.” 

Mr. Ryle opened a door into another lighted 
room, and left Electa alone, standing before the 
Franklin. The clock struck eleven as she stood 
there looking down into the wood fire ; as the last 
stroke sounded Cousin Jane’s footsteps were on 
the stairs. 

“It is all over, she is gone,” she said quietly, 
coming to Electa’s side ; “ my long watch is over. 
Electa, can you keep a secret? will you promise 
never to tell ? ” 

“Yes’m,” said Electa wonderingly. 

“All these years my sister has been out of her 
mind. I shut myself up with her that no one 
might know it; she was always quiet, she had 
nothing worse than ugly, stubborn fits, and some- 
times she would almost seem like herself. I was 
never afraid of her, but I had to keep her a little 
afraid of me. She would pretend not to listen 
while I read the Bible, but I read it to her every 
day, and made her kneel down while I prayed. 
I should have married and had a happy home, 
but for that; but no one could have taken my 
place to her. Poor Patty ! She used to be so full 
of life. ‘I want to go to heaven,’ she said last 
night. Now you must go to bed; the neighbors 


IN DARK AND LIGHT, 


179 


will do it all, and I’ll sleep with yon if yon will 
let me.” 

“May I stay here till it’s all done?” asked 
Electa, with a frightened look. Oh, for mamma 
or Celia to be close to her; bnt to be in this strange 
house with this strange face and that strange, dead 
presence npstairs was as innch as she conld bear 
for the moment. 

“ Yon haven’t taken off yonr things,” said Miss 
Westlake laying her hand on Electa’s shoulder. 

“ Must I ? ” she said, and then she laughed ner- 
vously. What a poor comforter she was ! 

Slowly she took off hat and veil, unpinned her 
shawl, unbuttoned her waterproof, and laid them 
on a worn horse-hair sofa. She had not waited to 
rebraid her hair; she looked like a little girl as she 
stood before the fire in her short, brown dress, 
high boots, and long hair. 

“ The little girl that came in the storm,” thought 
Miss Westlake, “the little girl that has come to 
me, instead of the home I might have had years 
ago.” 

A rush-bottomed rocker stood in the centre of 
the room ; Electa moved it nearer the fire, saying, 
“Won’t you sit down and rest? You have not 
rested much lately.” 

“Not for forty years, child, as I shall rest to- 
night,” said the old lady dropping herself into it. 
She leaned her elbow upon one of its arms and hid 
her face in her hand. In one corner near the fire- 
place was placed the sofa; Electa curled herself 


180 


ELECTA. 


up among her wrappings, and sat with her face 
toward the fire. She could not see Miss Westlake’s 
face, she thought it an intrusion even to glance 
towards her. Cousin Jane had had but this one 
sister all these years, and now she had not any one 
in the world — no one but herself! Cousin Jane 
was old and she was young; with the new love 
came a sense of ownership and protection; the 
mother-love was strong in Electa’s heart ; this love 
had hardly been a part of her love for Vail and 
Guy and Baby, because they had mamma ; it was 
strange that the first time — the first time since she 
had loved dolls — that the love should be awakened 
by one more than half a century older than her- 
self But Cousin Jane needed her. Electa could 
love any living thing that had need of her. In 
this thing the love in her heart was like God’s 
love. 

Drowsily she heard the clock strike twelve; she 
was asleep with her head upon her shawl and one 
hand thrown above her head. 

“ Oh, child, child 1 ” half sobbed Miss Westlake, 
bending over her, “how can I ever let you go? 
Now that I have you, must I ever let you go?” 

“ Mamma,” cried Electa, half awaking and start- 
ing up. 

“It’s only me, dear. Cousin Jane. How you 
have slept I every thing is done ; we can go upstairs 
now. I don’t deserve such kind neighbors. The 
things they have sent me will feed us for a week. 
And they have made all the arrangements. I hope 


IN DARK AND LIGHT, 


181 


you will like your room; Patty did so enjoy fixing 
it up.” 

Not fully awake, but walking as in a dream, 
Electa followed Miss Westlake up the broad stairs 
and through a long, dark, carpeted hall. She only 
noticed that her room was cosey and comfortable, 
and only felt that she was not forced to sleep alone. 

And Miss Westlake slept, with her care all taken 
away, and the warm, young breath close to her 
cheek. Even so late, if she would take it so, God 
was giving her the desire of her heart — a child to 
love and to love her. 

And so ended Electa’s first day out in the world. 


A LONG DAY. 


Electa awoke and found herself alone ; for one 
bewildered instant she wondered where she was; 
there was not one familiar thing in the room. 
The whitewashed walls were cracked and broken 
in many places, the one window was curtained 
with white dotted muslin bordered by a deep frill 
and tied back to a brass knob by a piece of very 
faded green ribbon; on the dark wash stand was a 
toilet set of blue and white, at the foot of the red 
high’posted bedstead stood a secretary, the upper 
half filled with books, the lower half being com- 
posed of drawers. On the odd little round table 
near the head of the bed were piled a variety of 
queer looking things; among them she noticed a 
small china cup and saucer, a bead pin-cushion, a 
large feather fan, and a silk needle book. On the 
walls several pictures had been placed, some of the 
frames were of much worn gilt, others were of 
dark carved wood ; one of the pictures represented 
a tomb overhung by a huge weeping willow, lean- 
ing over the tomb were three figures, — a man and 


A LONG DAY. 


183 


two women; the women wore deep black bonnets 
and long black veils, on the tomb was inscribed : 

“In Memoey of 
Mife anti 

with age and date of death. The other pictures 
were landscapes, and one view of the sea. The bu- 
reau was crowded with various ornaments, among 
them she singled out a string of gold beads. The 
carpet was new and bright, alternately striped 
with white, red, yellow, and green, and the two 
braided mats, one before the bed and one in front 
of the bureau, were new and fresh. Poor Cousin 
Patty had done all this for her! This little room 
had been waiting for her while she had lingered, 
and Patty had died. But she could not have done 
any thing for her ; she would hardly have dared to 
come had she known that she was “ queer.” The 
shutters were open and the rain was pattering 
against the small panes. Out of the window the 
fields were bare and wet, there were trees in the 
distance, but not one house. The odor of beef- 
steak and coffee came up to her, but there was not 
a sound in the house. 

At home how busy it was I Vail was shouting 
or singing, papa’s voice was calling to some one, 
mamma and Baby were in the dining-room, Celia 
was picking things up in the parlor, the girls and 
Guy were around everywhere, and oh, how cheery 
and talkative it would be at the breakfast-table. 

The tears were almost dropping on the little, old- 


184 


ELECTA. 


fashioned pillow when she aroused herself and 
almost shook herself into behaving. There were 
voices in the hall below, footsteps and the opening 
and closing of the street door. She arose slowly 
and began to dress; the excitement of coming being 
over, there seemed nothing left now but to endure, 
and then there were the long days and nights be- 
fore a letter could come. A Bible had been placed 
among the treasures on the table, the cover was 
defaced, the type small, outwardly and at the first 
inward glance there was nothing about it like 
home. Bible words and Bible truths were a part 
of home to her. She opened at random; words 
that she had never seen attracted her: “Ye shall 
offer at your own will.” Offer what? And to 
whom ? “A sacrifice, a peace-offering, a free-will 
offering unto the Lord.” The words were in Levi- 
ticus, it was a part of the old law ; Mr. Ryle had 
said : “ Oh, the loving-kindness of the law ! ” 

“It shall be perfect to be accepted, there shall 
be no blemish therein,” she read. Eagerly she 
read on: “Ye shall not offer unto the Lord that 
which is bruised, or crushed, or broken, or cut;” 
and further on: “And when ye will offer a sacri- 
fice of thanksgiving unto the Lord, offer it at your 
own will.” 

With the open book in her hand, half dressed, 
she stood thinking, determining as a light flashed 
all over her face, that her sacrifice, offered at her 
own free will, a sacrifice of thanksgiving, should 
not be given in a spirit crushed, bruised, or broken, 


A LONG DAY. 


185 


and the face that she brought to the glass over the 
bureau, after its bath of cold water was all aglow, 
very unlike the face that had been pressed so short 
a time since to the pillow that was almost wet. 

“Bless your heart ! ” ejaculated Cousin Jane, as 
she entered the sitting-room. “I wouldn’t eat 
with them, I waited for you. You can’t think how 
it stirs me up to have folks going and coming.” 

There was no sunshine to come in at the two 
windows, but the shutters were broad open and the 
misty light was not unpleasant; across the fields 
there were houses and barns and two church spires 
to be seen, the high stone- wall was below the slope, 
it did not at all obstruct the view, there was not 
at all any oppressive sensation of being shut in or 
shut up, every thing was so much happier than 
her fears. The face that she brought inward to 
the breakfast-table was sunshine itself. 

Already, according to her father’s prophecy, she 
was on the way to become the happiest woman in 
the world. And it was because she loved God and 
was being made ready to receive Him. She was 
not yet aware of this; she did not know that it 
was a new thought from Him that made sunshine 
in her dark places. 

The breakfast-table was very quaint and pretty ; 
there were beefsteak, toast, preserved peaches, 
and cottage cheese, arranged in blue and white 
dishes of various shapes and sizes ; the coffee was 
in a large silver urn, a cut-glass pitcher held the 
milk, and the sugar bowl was of old china. 


186 


ELECTA, 


“ Come, dear,” said Cousin Jane, “ will you have 
coffee or milk ? ” 

Only two of them ! But once before in all her life 
had she been one of two at the table. Cousin Jane 
bent her head and asked a silent blessing. Electa 
bowed her head listening to her father’s voice at 
home. 

Cousin Jane’s fussiness, her continual “Do have 
this,” or, “ Do take that,” or, “ Eat a little more,” 
or, “Doesn’t it taste good?” were somewhat trying 
to the girl who had all her life been let alone. 
When Cousin Jane cried anxiously, “Aren’t you 
afraid that you’ll fall off your chair ? ” it was a lit- 
tle too much for her serenity, she burst into a 
laugh that the old house had not heard for half a 
century. How Nan and Robin would laugh ! Why, 
mamma would not say that even to Guy ! Cousin 
Jane smiled; that laugh was the sweetest music 
that she had heard for years. Not by doing for 
her, but by being, would Electa bring her youth 
back; by being simply herself, with no care for the 
past and no thought for the future, except to take 
it as God sent it. 

“If I might begin again,” she sighed, as she 
pressed Electa to take peaches the third time. 

“Why not?” urged something within her; “you 
are not old towards God, you are always young 
with Him, His child ! ” 

Cousin Jane’s face brightened so suddenly that 
Electa turned to the window to see if the sun were 
shining. 


A LONG DAY. 


187 


It seemed to Miss Westlake afterward that a 
new, young life began for her at that instant, for 
there could be no age, in the sense of decay, to 
one who was God’s child. 

“You haven’t eaten much,” she said anxiously, 
as Electa prepared to leave the table. 

Outwardly it had been only beefsteak and toast 
and peaches and cheese to them both; inwardly 
they had both advanced a step in the kingdom of 
God. Every word spoken had been commonplace, 
too commonplace for me to record for you. But 
where two were gathered in His Name, was there 
not Another ? That unspoken Presence was with 
these two always; but it was a long time before 
they could speak of Him ; Electa, from natural 
shyness. Cousin Jane, because from years of con- 
straint, she was unused to speak of what was most 
in her thoughts. Poor Patty had been the most 
uncongenial of companions. 

“ I always read a chapter before I wash the break- 
fast things,” said Cousin Jane, rising; “I am read- 
ing the Bible through in course now for the fifty- 
fourth time. I am in Leviticus now.” 

“ May I read to you ? ” asked Electa eagerly; “ I 
would love to.” 

“ I would love to have you. I have several ser- 
mon books that I want you to read to me, too. I 
have always read a sermon every Sunday.” 

Electa pushed the rocker near the fire for Cousin 
Jane, and brought a wooden box covered with car- 
pet for herself to Cousin Jane’s side. The old lady 


188 


ELECTA. 


seated herself, longing to kiss the face so near hers 
and to touch the long braids, but — had she ever 
kissed and caressed any one ? It was so long ago 
that she had almost forgotten. Patty would never 
submit to be kissed. Last night Patty had made 
a motion to kiss her and for the first time since her 
face had grown old Jane had kissed it. 

Electa read in a very interested tone, hoping to 
find, among the old laws, some word spoken to 
her. But there did not seem to be anything; it 
must be there, she thought, only she could not find 
it by herself. She closed the Bible, held it in her 
hand, and looked into the fire. They were singing 
at home; would Cousin Jane like her to sing? 
Would she like Vail’s favorite: “ I am so glad that 
our Father in heaven”? 

Cousin Jane was leaning back with her eyes 
closed, the tears starting from under the lids. Be- 
ginning low and sweet Electa sang one verse, 
watching her face now and then; the tears came 
streaming before the second verse was finished. 

“ Sing that again,” she said. 

She sang the second verse again : 

“ Though I forget Him and wander away, 

Still He doth love me wherever I stray; 

Back to His dear, loving arms would I flee, 

When I remember that Jesus loves me. 

“I am so glad that Jesus loves me, 

Jesus loves me, Jesjas loves me; 

I am so glad that Jesus loves me, 

Jesus loves even me.” 


A LONG DAY, 


189 


“Isn’t there some more?” Cousin Jane asked. 

So she sang the long hymn through, all the six 
verses. 

“ How that would have comforted Patty ! It’s 
years and years and years since I have heard sing- 
ing. It breaks my heart. I can’t bear any more 
to-day.” 

With the habit of years, as if the girl beside her 
were the old rebellious woman, she said sooth- 
ingly: “Now kneel down and keep still.” 

The quick color flashed over Electa’s face. 

“ Excuse me, child. I shall forget that you are 
not Patty a hundred times a day; I’m a broken 
down old woman; don’t mind me.” 

The prayer was the same that she had prayed 
for Patty all these many years, so simple that a 
child of ten might understand every word. Poor 
Electa had but one petition : “ Don’t let me die of 
homesickness.” With the familiar hymn every 
home association was tugging at her heart. 

Cousin Jane arose and went into the kitchen for a 
calico a-pron which she put on over her gingham one. 

“ Where’s your apron, child ? ” 

“ I only had one, and I forgot to put it in.” 

“Then you must make some,” said Cousin Jane, 
decidedly, “ you must make four for you and two 
new ones for me.” 

“ I don’t want to spend the money,” answered 
Electa confusedly. 

“ I didn’t intend to spend your money, not one 
cent; you are to take your whole hundred dollars 


190 


ELECTA. 


home. If I want to make you a present, I suppose 
I may.” 

“ Oh, thank you ever so much,” cried Electa, her 
homesickness for the moment gone to the winds. 

“ Now you sit down and see me wash the dishes,” 
said Cousin Jane, rolling back the white ruffles in 
her sleeves. 

“ Then how will you know how handy I am ? ” 
laughed Electa. 

“I know that well enough; I don’t want you to 
work; I put that in to please Patty. The house 
will be full of people . coming and going all day ; 
I want you to see them and talk to them; it 
puts me out so to see people ! you can’t think ! my 
head gets all in a whirl, and I don’t know what 
I’m saying. I said yesterday, ‘ Oh, you are Nancy 
Grey,’ and she up and laughed, and said that she 
was Nancy Grey’s daughter. I’m too mixed up. 
I must see people by degrees and get used to it. 
I don’t want them in here either; I want you to 
dust the front room opposite the parlor and kin- 
dle a fire in there, and see the people there ; you 
can answer all the questions. I’ve kept the rooms 
dusted, and opened the windows when Patty didn’t 
know, and the stove in that room will burn, I had 
a fire there three weeks ago one day when she was 
asleep ; and, by and by, when I get used to things, 
we’ll open all the doors and windows and build 
fires to dry up the house. Just now I see men 
like trees walking and voices confuse me so.” 

She could not have asked Electa to do a harder 


A LONG DAY. 


191 


thing; her heart beat so last that she could not 
catch her breath to assent or dissent. 

, “ I’ll unlock the door for you and bring you the 
wood and kindlings.” 

“Well,” said Electa slowly, wondering how she 
would live through it. 

“ They will all ask heaps of questions, but there’s 
nothing for you to tell, except that Patty gave me 
every thing that belonged to her to do just as I like 
with, and to give to any body I choose. I want 
you to add up her bank-book and mine some day; 
we have money in three banks, I wouldn’t trust it 
all in one. And Patty used to wear the six bank- 
books night and day; she was terribly afraid of 
robbers. I told her that our treasure was laid up 
in heaven, but she held those bank-books pretty 
tight, nevertheless. Poor Patty ! The money never 
did her any good. I gave it all to the Lord last 
night: I never did care for money as some do. I 
spread the six bank-books before Him as Hezekiah 
did the letter and asked Him to spend it as pleased 
Him. And I guess He will, for I was in earnest. 
Do you want to go in and see Patty first ? I want 
you to look at her, for she counted on your coming. 
And you haven’t those beads on ! Perhaps I didn’t 
tell you ? Those gold beads upstairs with the big 
gold cross fastened on them, she said she wanted 
to give you, and there’s lots of other things all for 
you; I never knew her to open her heart as she 
did to you. There’s a watch and rings and a gold 
chain.” 


192 


ELECTA. 


“Must I keep them all?” 

“Why, don’t you want them?” asked Cousin 
Jane in surprise. “ I thought that children liked 
trinkets.” 

“ I’ll wear the beads to remember her by, but I’d 
so like to give the other things to Celia and Nan 
and Mollie and Trude and Robin.” 

“Well, so you may, I suppose; they are yours 
to keep or give away. When I make a present I 
like people to do what they like with it. I’ll show 
them to you after we get things fixed up a little. 
Bless your heart, child, give away all you like. 
When the ministers call I give them money for 
the church and how Patty would rage ! I wouldn’t 
deceive her, I always told her, and, poor thing, she 
always cried and said that she’d live to see me die 
in the poor-house. But she wasn’t right or she 
wouldn’t have acted so. The notions she would 
get! Once she tried to live without eating or 
drinking, and I could only manage that by threat- 
ening to run away and leave her if she wouldn’t 
eat. And then she thought that she was too 
wicked to lie in a comfortable bed, and insisted 
upon sleeping out in the snow, and the nights I’ve 
had to lock our room doors and fasten the windows 
down nobody knows I But nobody knew and no- 
body shall know ! Sometimes I’ve read the Bible 
aloud half the night to keep her quiet, and always 
I patted her to sleep as you pat a baby. But those 
queer spells didn’t come often; the worst of it was 
I didn’t know when they would come; usually she 


A LONG DAY. 


193 


was very good and no trouble. Sometimes she’d 
cry all night and all day, and I couldn’t pacify 
her any way, but her tears are wiped away now ! 
How often I’ve seen her an hour at a time on her 
knees, trying to collect her thoughts to pray and 
crying out, ‘0, God, be merciful to me.’ I used 
to sing, ‘ Hush, my dear,’ to her, and she always 
liked that. I sung it last night while she was 
a-dying. Do you know it? 

“ * Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber, 

Holy angels guard thy bed.* ” 

“ I never heard it.” 

“I’ll say it to you sometime. I know all the 
hymn book and all the Psalms and James and 
Eomans ; I’ll say them all to you. Patty used to 
like to hear me; it kept her quiet.” 

Cousin Jane had scraped the dishes and piled 
them up while she was talking. 

“ I’ll take them out in the kitchen, and then 
we’ll go and see Patty. You haven’t seen our 
kitchen ; do come straight out. Patty used to 
work in it from morning till night. You may eat 
all the dirt you’ll find.” 

And certainly Electa believed that she might. 
No kitchen floor was ever so spotless before, no 
row of tins ever shone so brightly ; there were four 
shelves filled with tins and each was as bright 
as silver; there seemed not to be a speck of any 
kind upon walls or ceiling; upon the white floor 
bright, home-made rugs were placed before the 


194 


ELECTA, 


dresser, before the shining stove, and one under 
each of the four windows, a wooden settle stood 
in one corner near a window; under another win- 
dow a green flower-stand containing several flower- 
pots in which were growing with a sickly growth 
rose-geraniums, southernwood, nasturtiums, hops 
and ivy ; spotless shades of white Holland adorned 
with crimson tassels were at the windows ; on the 
high, white mantel were arranged four flat-irons 
at one end, at the other four tall brass candle- 
sticks as bright as polishing could make them ; a 
white pine table with four red legs, rush-bottomed 
chairs, and one “barrel chair” completed the fur- 
niture. Jane had made the barrel chair out of a 
barrel, and Patty had stuffed it with hay and cov- 
ered it with gay chintz. A holder for the poker 
and two flat-iron holders were hanging under the 
mantel. 

“Do you like it?” asked Miss Westlake. 

“ Like it ! IPs as neat as a cell in a beehive ! ” 
exclaimed Electa. 

“ We had it painted twice a year, and Patty 
whitewashed it twice a month all the year round; 
she was always working out here from morning 
till night. I have known her to wash this floor 
twice a day. I let her do any thing to keep her 
quiet. Work was her blessing. If it might only 
have been a work out among poor, needy folks, 
I should have been satisfied. Every Saturday she 
painted the hearth and the bricks behind the 
stove. ‘Is somebody coming?' I used to say. 


A LONG DAY, 


195 


‘No; nobody ever’ll come now,’ she always an- 
swered. ‘I don’t want any body to come now.’ 
Somebody has come now, though,” added Miss 
Westlake with evident satisfaction. 

This was the kitchen that was being made ready 
for her, that was beginning to be made ready, as 
all her good things were, before she was born. It 
was so much prettier than Susie Prentiss’ kitchen. 

“I shall be afraid to step into it,” said Electa; 
“it makes me feel soiled.” 

“ The sink and the pump and the wood and coal 
are in the shed; that is three steps down, and 
there’s a brick walk out to the barn and stables. 
When it leaves off raining you must go out and 
look around. Every thing is built of brick and in 
good repair. I’ve always had a carpenter come 
to look around and fix up things. And you must 
see our cow, she’s as white as she can be all over; 
her name is Lily. I don’t know what I should have 
done without Lily; her mother was Pet, and her 
grandmother Daisy. We raise our own hay, and 
that’s all we have raised, for Patty wouldn’t have 
men about, and I didn’t want them to see her, 
either. All my visitors have been the butcher, 
the baker, the grocer, and peddling men of all 
sorts; there’s a back gate and they find their way 
in. They have been a link between me and the 
^ world. Patty never saw them. The grocer was 
in my Sunday-school class once; he attends to all 
my business; his wife was here all the time Patty 
was sick, and he and his brother stayed here all 


196 


ELECTA. 


night last night. Now come and look out into the 
shed.” 

After the shed had been explored and every 
thing it contained commented upon, Miss West- 
lake opened the door out upon the brick walk. 

‘‘ It isn’t raining so very hard,” she exclaimed, 
holding out her hand; “put on your shawl and 
come out and see Lily. Patty kept her as slick as 
if she were a horse.” 

They found the beautiful white creature eating 
her breakfast of hay. Miss Westlake went to her, 
smoothing her neck lovingly. “ Patty has gone,” 
she said half to herself, “she will never be un- 
happy any more.” 

“You ought to have a horse, Cousin Jane,” said 
Electa; “it’s a pity for some horse not to have 
such a good home.” 

“A horse! What for? I don’t go anywhere. 
And I don’t want a boy around ; I don’t want any 
body but you.” 

Electa went out into the rain again, thinking: 
“ But I want somebody beside you^ 

“There’s a mat in the shed, wipe your feet, 
child.” 

Electa obeyed with a resentful flush upon her 
cheeks; she might be small for her age, but she 
did not like to be treated like a child. 

“Now we’ll go in and see Patty,” proposed Miss 
Westlake, as they re-entered the kitchen; “hang 
your shawl on that hook over the settle.” 

Miss Westlake took a bunch of large keys from 


A LONG DAY. 


197 


the top shelf of the chimney closet in the sitting- 
room saying, “ Come.” 

Electa went reluctantly; but how could she re- 
fuse to look upon the face of one who had watched 
for her coming? She hoped that it was not wicked 
to be glad that she had come too late to live with 
Patty, for she felt that she could not have stayed 
one hour under the same roof with her. It was 
not wicked to be thankful that it had not been re- 
quired of her. 

Miss Westlake unlocked one of the large dark 
doors, opened it and went into the parlor. 

“ This is our best parlor,” she whispered. 

Electa lingered on the threshold as long as she 
could. The little white sheeted figure was so 
still. There was no need now to keep her “ quiet.” 

“She was the littlest thing, not as big as you; 
it was a mercy to me that she was little. Poor lit- 
tle Patty,” she added tenderly, folding the sheet 
away from the face. 

It was a little face, thin and wrinkled, with the 
iron-gray hair brushed down smooth on each side 
of the face; the eyes were sunken, the lips with- 
ered and fallen in; the small, bony hands were 
folded over her breast. On the marriage finger 
Electa noticed a worn, plain gold ring. 

“That ring! yes, she always wore it; it was 
heavy enough when it was first put on, but he 
married some one else and died soon after, and 
she always would wear the ring. was a sad 
story; some people do have sad stories. Life is 


198 


ELECTA. 


just the same all over, I guess. I suspect that 
there are sad stories out among folks now, just as 
there were then.”^') 

Electa thought of Celia. Why could not Cousin 
Patty have been brave like her ? 

“It’s in some folks to break down,” continued 
Miss Westlake, covering the face again; “they 
don’t have any thing to take to instead. It seems 
to me there’s plenty; when one thing is taken 
there’s always another. You see Patty was taken, 
and you were given right away. Perhaps things 
come to them that expect; I was always expect- 
ing, but Patty never would.” 

The shutters were tightly closed, not one ray of 
light strayed through a crevice anywhere; the only 
light in the room came from the long, narrow win- 
dow over the doors in the hall. 

Glancing around timidly. Electa saw dark, carved 
furniture covered with linen, pictures upon the 
walls, ornaments upon the mantel; the carpet 
seemed soft and bright. 

“ I like to come into this room. If it hadn’t been 
for seeing so many people, I’d have had the fu- 
neral here, but it’s going to be in the church, and 
I needn’t go unless I want to. I’ve had many 
good times in this room ; father and mother were 
lively folks and wanted us to have a good time. 
This furniture is silk patchwork and worsted-work 
and all kinds of pretty things ; we did it for Patty’s 
house that she never had. I used to like to talk 
over old times, but Patty never would; she couldn’t 


A LONG DAY. 


199 


remember very well; sometimes she didn’t know 
who I was. Sometimes for days and days and 
days she wouldn’t speak one word. She used to 
vrander and wander and wander around inside the 
stone-walls ; when she was first taken, she used to 
run away and take long walks, miles and miles, so 
^ I had to watch her, and keep her in. Once I found 
her on the top of the stone-wall, so I never let her 
go out alone after that. I shall not miss any com- 
panionship in her. I shall miss the care. I had 
mapped out such a different life for myself, and 
you see what I’ve had. But it isn’t too late. God 
never says ‘ too late ’ up in heaven, so why should 
I down here? Expecting things has kept my 
heart from breaking.” 

Miss Westlake locked the door again and un- 
locked the door in the hall opposite to it. The 
room contained three windows, two at the front 
and one at the side; the window-sills were nar- 
row, at a considerable distance from the floor, and 
the panes were many and small. The curtains 
were of some rich, bright material; Miss Westlake 
unfastened the shutters and threw them open. 

“ There are houses,” cried Electa joyfully, stand- 
ing at one of the front windows. 

“ Did you think that we lived in the woods ? ” 

“Almost; is that Walnut Grove?” 

“Yes ; and in the third story you can see Swanzey.” 

The carpet on this floor was a worn ingrain, 
yellow, blue, red and green figures running into 
each other, the chairs were cane-seated, there were 


200 


ELECTA. 


two tables, one under the long mirror in the pier, 
the other in a corner; on the table in the corner 
were piled books and various ornaments; on the 
mantel stood a clock with peacock’s feathers ar- 
ranged before it, tall vases filled with dried grasses, 
and two silver candlesticks; a horse-hair rocker, 
the back covered with a white tidy, was placed, 
near the window in the chimney corner. 

“Mother used to sit there and look down the 
road,” said Miss Westlake; “her knitting work is in 
that table drawer, just as she left it; father’s spec’s 
are there, too. Now, I’ll bring you the wood and 
things, and you make a fire and sit here and wait 
for callers. I’ll give you a duster and you may 
dust.” 

“Mayn’t I wash the dishes first?” she asked 
eagerly. 

“No, I’ll do that; you might break some of them.” 

“ I won’t break the stove,” said Electa, trying to 
smile; “let me get the wood and kindlings, I 
know where they are.” 

“Well, I don’t care,” she answered moving away. 

Something was perverse, either the wood or the 
draught, or perhaps Electa did not know how to 
make a fire, for the fire smoked instead of burning 
to a flame, and the third time that she opened the 
stove door to see if it were burning there was not 
one spark of fire. What would Cousin Jane think 
of her ? The kindlings were burned out, and she 
must go through the kitchen into the wood-shed 
to find others. There had been a step in the hall ; 


A LONG DAY, 


201 


it might be that Cousin Jane had gone upstairs. 
Was she all alone down-stairs? She arose from 
her knees, brushed the dirt off her fingers, and 
opened the door into the hall, glancing with paled 
cheeks towards the locked door across the hall. 
Then, almost with a bound she passed it, hurried 
through sitting-room and kitchen, and returned 
with shavings and kindling wood. This time it 
must burn — if it did not it would be very childish 
to cry; but before she knew it her eyes were 
full and overflowing. Cousin Jaiie could speak 
sharply, and she did not want to hear her speak 
sharply. No one had ever been sharp to her. But 
the smoke pufied out into her face, the shavings 
blazed a moment and died out, the wood wQuld 
not kindle. 

There was smut upon her fingers, and tears and 
smut upon her face, shavings and bits of kindling 
were strewn upon the oil-cloth, under the stove 
and around it, and when the door was pushed 
softly open two minutes later, she was sitting on 
the carpet in front of the stove, with her head in 
her hands, crying as hard as she could cry. 

She heard the step and without raising her head 
sobbed: “Oh, Cousin Jane, the fire won’t burn.” 

As Cousin Jane made no response, she dropped 
her hands and lifted her head; instead of Cousin 
Jane’s placid face, she met a pair of laughing, gray 
eyes. 

“The fire won’t burn,” he repeated in exactly 
her tone ; “ excuse me for laughing at your grief, 


202 


ELECTA. 


but it’s very queer to cry when the fire won’t 
burn.” 

“It wasn’t all that,” said Electa, rising slowly 
and looking very much ashamed. 

“Didn’t you hear us? We have brought your 
trunk, the stage driver and I. Mrs. Morris jsent 
me to inquire, and, as the stage was passing, I 
jumped in ; we brought the trunk on the piazza, 
but I came around to the back door for fear of 
making too much noise.” 

“ How did you know the way ? ” 

“ 1 have always known the way; I used to bring 
groceries here when I was in Mr. Truman’s store. 
Miss Jane knows me like a book. Are you glad to 
have your trunk. Miss Electa ? ” 

“ Yes, thank you,” she said. 

She wanted to say, “ I am glad to have you\' for, 
oh, it did seem so good to see somebody young^ 
to hear such a young voice and such young, light 
talk. She did not know before how very old and 
grave and far beyond her Cousin Jane was, and 
Mr. Eyle and his mother. This voice and face and 
manner were bringing back herself and taking 
away that old, responsible feeling that had been 
weighing her down ; all the world was not old ; she 
was young still, and living among young life. 
Since yesterday morning she had been feeling so 
old ; it was so delightful to be little-girl-ish enough 
to cry because the fire would not burn. Not that 
Electa thought all this, she felt it in a vague, re- 
lieved way; she felt that somehow every thing was 


A LONG DAY, 


203 


not so dreadful; that first feeling of companion- 
ship with John Gray she never lost. He was to 
her what the first new moon after her trouble had 
been to Celia; the new moon came to Celia in a 
flash of grateful surprise; she exclaimed to herself, 
“ Oh, I thought there would never be a new moon 
again.” 

But there will always be new moons and young 
companionship as long as God does not grow old. 
The world will be always new and young to those 
who, like Cousin Jane, are “ expecting things.” 

“Then I’ll open the door and bring it in,” he 
answered, amused at the light and color in her 
face. “ I was afraid you were grown up ; I didn’t 
know that you were such a little girl. Are you 
fifteen?” 

“No.” 

“ Fourteen ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Thirteen, then ? ” 

“No, indeed.” 

“You can’t be twelve ? ” 

“No, I can’t.” 

“ Then you must be sixteen.” 

“No, I am not.” 

“ I see that I’m not good at guessing ; I’ll give 
up. I brought you one of Mr. Ryle’s books, the 
first that I picked up. It’s grand,” he exclaimed 
enthusiastically, taking a small volume from his 
breast pocket. 

“‘Pollok’s Course of Time,”’ she said, turning 


204 


ELECTA. 


the leaves. “I would like to read it all; I have 
dipped into it, but now I’ll read it thoroughly. I 
shall have a great deal of time to read.” 

“ I wish I could say that. May I kindle the fire 
for you?” 

“ Oh, thank you, if you will. I never kindle 
fires at home.” 

“This room is too chilly for you; go out to the 
fire, and I’ll come and tell you when it burns.” 

“Then perhaps you’ll never come; she answered 
gravely, moving towards the door with Pollok in 
her hand. 

“ I wouldn’t like to spend my life in this room, 
or in this house,” said John, kneeling before the 
stove and opening the stove door. “ I want to tra- 
vel everywhere; books of travel set me wild.” 

“ I would rather stay home and read them than 
go travelling,” said Electa. 

“I’ll travel, and write my book for you then,” 
he returned in a careless tone, as the deep color 
flushed cheek and brow. It was the first time that 
he had ever spoken aloud the words: “Write my 
book.” But how he was dreaming about it night 
and day. 

Electa went out, closing the door softly. The 
breakfast dishes were still piled unwashed upon 
the table ; she hesitated, and then decided to wash 
them. It would be something to prove to Cousin 
Jane that she would not break them. But where 
were the dish-pan and towels and soap ? It would 
be better not to do it at all than not to do it ex- 


A LONG DAY. 


205 


cellently. She might take the dishes into the 
kitchen, there would be no risk in doing that. 
With nervous step and hands somewhat unsteady 
she carried the plates and cups and saucers into the 
kitchen and put them on the tabJ<e, smiling at her- 
self for her nervousness ; at home she was not afraid 
of doing any thing. She went back, and taking 
coffee urn, sugar bowl, and milk pitcher into her 
hands had turned towards the kitchen door, when 
a light step touched the stairs ; hastening towards 
the kitchen she stumbled, her right hand instinct- 
ively moved to protect herself — there was a shock, 
a crash, the pretty glass pitcher lay in several 
pieces upon the carpet, the milk had spattered her 
face, her dress and the carpet. 

“Oh, dear!" she almost screamed, “oh, dear 
me ! ” and for the second time within fifteen min- 
utes burst into tears. At that instant Miss West- 
lake opened the door. 

“Why, child, what ails you? What have you 
done? Broken my mother’s pitcher? I thought 
that you’d break something ; but never mind, poor 
dear, don’t cry about it. You shall break all the 
dishes in the house, if you’ll be good and not cry.” 

“I don’t want to,” exclaimed Electa, half laugh- 
ing. “1 don’t want to break another one. Do 
you want me to go home, because I can’t do any 
thing? 1 couldn’t make the fire burn, either; John 
Gray is kindling the fire.” 

“John Gray! In that room! Did he wipe his 
feet? What did you let him do it for ? ” 


206 


ELECTA. 


“ My trunk is on the piazza ; but I’ll go home, 
Cousin Jane, if you don’t want me to stay any 
longer. I can find somebody else to come.” She 
was half stooping over the broken pitcher with the 
coffee urn and sugar bowl still in her hand, milk 
and tears were mingled upon her cheek. 

“Go home! I’d like to see you go home! I’ll 
pick up the pieces; it’s no matter about the pitcher, 
these are my commonest dishes; I’ll show you my 
china closet some day. Perhaps you are a bit ner- 
vous ; go and sit down and don’t do another thing 
to-day.” 

“ I want to help,” said Electa humbly. 

“ I’ll show you how I wash dishes then ; set those 
things in the closet in this room.” 

“ Good morning, Miss Jane ! ” 

It was John Gray’s voice and he was laughing 
again. Electa hurried into the kitchen, she would 
have closed the door had she not felt it to be rude. 

“ I want some matches, please.” 

“Don’t step on this glass.” 

Those voices she had heard for the first time 
only last night. She went to the fiower-stand, 
they could not see her there, and picked a leaf of 
the rose-geranium and crushed it in her fingers. 
Celia loved the fragrance of the rose-geranium, it 
was always about her; as she pressed the leaf 
Celia was close beside her. If she could, she would 
have given her hundred dollars for a letter from 
Celia, but, oh, how long she must wait. 

“Lecty!” called Miss Westlake, “don’t you want 


A LONG DAY. 


207 


your trunk brought in and taken upstairs ? John 
and I will take it upstairs.” 

“I can do it myself,” said John, “as soon as the 
fire burns, if you’ll show me the way.” 

“ Please,” said Electa from the kitchen. 

She had wiped half the dishes before the fire 
was kindled and the trunk taken up to her room. 

“May I come again. Miss Jane?” John stopped 
to ask, as he passed through the kitchen. 

“Yes, as often as you like; you don’t make any 
noise or any trouble,” said Miss Westlake encour- 
agingly. 

As soon as the dishes were put away Electa 
hastened upstairs to open her trunk. It had been 
set under the window ; she liked to have it there 
because she might kneel on it and look out the 
window. There was a small closet in the room, 
containing a shelf and several hooks. She lingered 
over her task of unpacking, hanging her dresses 
in the closet and arranging smaller articles in the 
drawers of the secretary. Her books were at the 
bottom of her trunk — her few books, her treasures. 
Opening “ Mrs. Hemans ” an envelope fell out ; it was 
a fresh envelope, addressed to herself in Celia’ ^ 
familiar hand! With a little cry that would have 
made Celia happy all day, she tore it open. It was 
a long letter written the evening before she left 
home. And she had not had to wait for her 
letter. She remembered that Celia went into 
papa’s study to write that evening, and she had 
felt just a little hard towards her, because she 


208 


ELECTA, 


had chosen this evening to write instead of stay- 
ing with her. 

It was a long, full letter, so much like Celia that 
it needed only her voice to make it herself Celia 
could always write more easily than she could talk. 
Electa reread it three times and then put it into 
her pocket that she might have it near her all day. 
The last paragraph ran thus: “Papa has named 
your journal ‘ Out in God’s World.’ He did that for 
our.sakes as well as yours; for when any, one asks, 
‘ Where is Electa ? ’ we shall all think, ‘ She is out 
in God’s world.’ God’s world is Christ’s world; you 
remember that Christ said, ‘ All power is given unto 
Me in heaven and in earth.’ Not only in heaven, 
but in earth. ‘ All power ! ’ Power enough to keep 
you from the evil there is in the world, and power 
enough to give you the good there is in heaven. 
Look at the title of your book every day before you 
write a word in it. My title is as lovely as yours ; 
did I show you mine ? ‘ Up in God’s Heart,’ with 

the motto, ‘Look up, and not down.’ What an 
outlook and uplook we have ! I forgot to tell you 
that I put your needle-book in the pocket of your 
green gingham, and I may forget to tell you in the 
morning. It will be a comfort to me for you to 
love to sew.” 

This was so like Celia: needle-books and lovely 
thoughts! She loved beautiful thoughts and she 
“loved” to sew. 

“ Lecty 1 ” Miss Westlake was at the door, speak- 
ing breathlessly. “There are people on the piazza; 


A LONG DAY. 


209 


you’ll have to come down. Take them in to see 
Patty, they’ll expect it, and tell them that she was 
conscious to the last, and had pneumonia. Tell 
them that I can not see my friends to-day, and if 
you think they’ll feel hurt if you don’t ask them, j 
why you’ll have to ask them to come again.” j 

“ But I don’t know them,” faltered Electa. | 

“ Oh, they are only the neighbors or people from 
Walnut Grove. I shouldn’t think that they’d come 
out in the rain, but they have.” 

Electa’s feet almost refused to stir. Would they 
call her “gawky” and “bashful”? And would 
they notice that she was lame ? She had forgotten 
to think whether or not John Gray had noticed 
her lameness. 

“ Don’t be so long, child.” 

Very slowly Electa stepped down the stairs; 
there were voices on the piazza, several voices, 
what should she say after she had said “good- 
morning ” ? 

The door was opened at last, the greeting spoken 
and responded to, and two ladies, a gentleman, 
and a young girl ushered into the room where the 
fire had been kindled. John had swept the zinc 
and oil cloth, and moved the chairs so that they 
appeared a little less stiff. 

“ How is Miss Patty ? ” queried one of the ladies. 

“ May we not see Miss Jane ? ” asked the other. 

“ Are you here alone with her ? ” questioned the 
gentleman. 

“Is Miss Jane very crazy?” asked tlie young girl. 


210 


ELECTA. 


Electa could answer questions ; at times she was 
indignant, at times confused, at times silent, many 
times her reply was simply: “ I don’t know.” 

But harder than all was unlocking the door, and 
taking them in to look curiously at the quiet face 
and poor, little, folded hands. 

“ She wasn’t married ! ” whispered the girl; “ see 
that ring.” 

Electa stood nearest her, as if she might thus 
shield her from the whispered comments. 

“ Who will have her money ? ” asked one of the 
ladies, as Electa was relocking the door. 

“ The one who loved her best,” said Electa in a 
low tone. 

The young girl giggled, the others said nothing. 
As she closed the door, not replying to their pro- 
fuse thanks, she heard the girl exclaim loudly, 
Isnt she a poky little thing? Not life enough 
for a mouse ! ” 

But Cousin Jane was saved all this annoyance; 
that was something to think o;^ even if she herself 
had learned that she was a poky little thing. 

Miss Patty’s death had caused a commotion for 
miles around ; all day people came and went. Miss 
Westlake refused to see any of them. Electa re- 
plied to the same questions in the same tone hour 
after hour, locked and unlocked that door, folded 
away the sheet from the unseeing, unlistening face, 
and stood nearest her while some looked and whis- 
pered and others looked and seemed too moved 
to speak. 


A LONG DAY. 


211 


Miss Westlake prepared dinner and they ate to- 
gether silently; Miss Westlake, too flurried and 
excited to talk, and Electa, too wearied over the 
morning, and too worried over what the afternoon 
might bring. 

In the twilight the last visitors — Electa called 
them the last intruders, — drove away ; they had in- 
quired Miss Patty’s age, asked what her last words 
were, and if she felt “willing to go,” were anxious 
to know if she had left a will, and supposed that 
now Miss Jane would not shut herself up any 
longer. 

“Shut the blinds, and shut up the stove now, 
Lecty; and come out to supper,” said Miss West- 
lake, appearing in the doorway. 

Out of sheer fatigue Electa had dropped down 
on the carpet before the fire, drawing a long breath. 

“You have lived through this day, and so have 
I; and now nobody will come to-night but the 
watchers.” 

“Some of the people were so kind and gentle 
and sympathetic,” replied Electa rising ; “ they did 
not ask any impertinent questions, and they looked 
at her as if they were so sorry for her. They said 
they had not seen her for so long, and she had 
changed so.” 

“So have they,” said Miss Westlake dryly; “they 
seem to forget that. Come to tea, I’ve made hot 
biscuits for you.” 

Electa did not love to talk; it was pleasanter to 
sit and dream, to think about home, to wonder 


212 


ELECTA, 


what Cousin Patty’s jewels might be, and to im- 
agine herself giving the watch to Celia, choosing 
a breast-pin for her mother, a diamond ring for 
Mollie, and — 

“ It seems very queer to have somebody to tea,” 
remarked Miss Westlake. “I fussed around just 
as I used to.” 

Electa was forgetting that she was “ somebody 
to tea,” rousing herself as she was throwing the 
watch chain about Celia’s neck, she began to talk 
about the first group of visitors, describing dress, 
manner, and conversation; Miss Westlake bright- 
ened, asking questions and speculating as to whom 
they might be. 

“It does seem good to have somebody to talk 
to,” she sighed, as they left the table. “ Now you 
are tired, sit down and read over your letter while 
I put things away.” 

After the tiresome day the letter seemed doubly 
delicious. 

Miss Westlake fastened the blinds, shutting out 
the sound of the rain, covered the table with a 
green-and-red cloth, and set two tall brass candle- 
sticks holding tall candles in the centre of it. 

“ Now we’ll have an evening,” she said. “ Patty 
would go to bed before dark.” 

Electa seated herself at the table; Miss Westlake 
moved the rush-bottomed rocker to the fire, and 
sat silent with her eyes closed. 

“ Cousin Jane.” 

“Well, dear?” 


A LONG DAY. 


213 


Miss Westlake’s voice had grown mellow since 
last night. 

“ Would you like me to read you my letter ? ” 

“Would I? I would, indeed. I used to have 
letters once in a while when I was a girl, and 
Patty has some that I must look over and burn. 
What a big sheet ! ” 

“ It’s a foolscap. And some is written between 
the lines. I could recite it now from beginning to 
end, I really believe.” 

She did not read: “My little sister;” that was 
too precious for any one beside herself. Miss 
Westlake listened intently, almost intensely. It 
was a wonderful thing to her to be out “among 
folks” again; it was like being born into a new 
world, for the world had grown old and new again 
since she was young. 

“But I can’t begin again,” she answered to 
something, some longing, some cry within her- 
self; “all I can do is to go straight on.” 

“ That’s as good as a book ! ” she exclaimed hear- 
tily, “what a blessed thing it is to be set in a 
family.” 

“Oh, Cousin Jane,” exclaimed Electa, with all 
her heart in her eyes, “can’t you and I make a 
family ? This house is so large and we can fill it 
full.” 

“We are a family now,” returned Miss Westlake 
decidedly, her tone shivering Electa’s enthusiasm. 
“I don’t want any one but you, you make the 
house full enough for me.” 


214 


ELECTA. 


Electa smoothed out the large sheet and studied 
the penmanship. Hawthorne once remarked that 
he reperused his wife’s letters for the sake of the 
penmanship ; Celia’s letters were well worth read- 
ing for the sake of the penmanship. Pollok was 
safe in Electa’s pocket; there was but one other 
book in the room excepting the Bible, that and 
the Bible were on the stand with Miss Westlake’s 
spectacles. 

Not a bird, or a kitten, or a dog, nothing alive 
near her except Lily asleep in her stable, the tall 
clock with its solemn, ceaseless tick, the fire that 
blazed on its iron hearth circling in and out among 
the short sticks of wood, and the sweet old lady 
asleep in her arm-chair. Celia’s letter was another 
live thing and the rose-geranium in the kitchen. 
Any thing else? Her Bible upstairs, — that was 
alive when God’s life breathed through the words. 
But.it was upstairs, and she dared not go upstairs 
alone; her writing materials also, and journal 
were beside it on the secretary. If she could have 
them the evening would not seem so long; but the 
two lonely halls, the long staircase! She drew 
Pollok from her pocket and opened to the first 
book. It seemed hard and uninteresting: 

“Eternal Spirit ! God of truth ! to whom 
All things seemed as they are; Thou, who of old 
The prophet’s eye unsealed, that nightly saw 
While heavy sleep fell down on other men, 

In holy vision tranced the future pass 
Before him, and to Judah’s — ” 


A LONG DAY. 


215 


A soft, low, plaintive voice, interrupted her. 
Miss Westlake had lifted her hand and was pat- 
ting her own knee crooning: 

“Hush, my dear, lie stiU and slumber, 

Holy angels guard thy bed.” 

If the holy angels were guarding her and them, 
how could she be timid about going upstairs alone ? 
With the sudden impulse she seized one of the 
candlesticks and darted into the hall. A shutter 
upstairs was blown with a bang against the case- 
ment, as her feet touched the first stair ; she stified 
the shriek that came to her lips, but the heavy can- 
dlestick fell and extinguished the candle ; grasping 
the banister hard with both hands, she stood trem- 
bling, faint with a fear of she knew not what; the 
darkness choked her, she could not catch her 
breath. The front door rattled, there was a step 
upon the piazza^ — no, it was nothing, there was 
not a sound. Slowly lifting one foot and then 
another, grasping the banister with both hands, 
she passed up the staircase. She could find her 
books easily in the dark ; God was out in His world, 
it was faithless to be afraid of any thing. Step by 
step, as the fear passed, each step growing lighter, 
she groped her way up to her room, and felt along 
to the little table and found her books; she stood 
still one moment to regain her breath, to reassure 
herself, to feel near to God in that room that she 
had knelt and prayed in twice that day; then turn- 
ing, she became bewildered, and stretching one 


216 


ELECTA. 


hand before her could not reach the door. Grop- 
ing hither and thither, touching now a bed-post, 
now the table, and now the wall, then turning to 
touch them all again, at last she touched the 
knob of a door ; the door was ajar ; had she closed 
the door or left it open ? She could not remember, 
but it would be natural to leave it open that she 
might the more readily make her escape; she 
pushed it gently, the air seemed closer than the 
air of the hall; where could she be? This must be 
Patty’s room or the other room into which her 
room opened; the swinging shutter banged against 
the window frame, then after a second, as soon as 
the house was still, there was another sound — a soft, 
stealthy movement, a noiseless, smothered step, 
above her, around her, or in the next room, she 
could not decide. Was it approaching her or mov- 
ing away from her? Holding the door-knob in 
her hand with an unuttered cry upon her stiffening 
lips, she stood as still as if she did not breathe; her 
sharpened ears listening to the stealthy step. 

“ Lecty ! Lecty, child ! where are you? ” 

With a rush of life through her whole being, she 
sprang forward towards the voice and the light. 

“ Are you upstairs ? ” called Miss Westlake from 
the staircase. 

Had she been upstairs for years ? 

“ I came up for my books,” she answered in a 
self-controlled voice, emerging into the light, “ and 
I think I lost my way in the dark.” 

“I missed you, and noticed a candle was gone.” 


A LONG DAY. 


217 


“ I dropped it and put it out,” she said, speaking 
more naturally. “ Do you have rats here ? ” 

“ Sometimes, did you see one ? ” 

“ In the dark ? ” she laughed excitedly. 

“Are you sure that you locked the door where 
Patty is ? ” 

“ Oh, yes.” 

Electa picked up the candlestick and the broken 
candle. 

“ Have you bent it ? Or dropped grease on the 
stair carpet?” inquired Miss Westlake, in a con- 
cerned voice. 

How good it seemed to be in a world where she 
might drop grease on the stair carpet ? How good 
to be back where the fire burned and the clock 
ticked. It was striking six as she went out; it was 
four minutes past six now ! 

“ Are you going to write ? ” asked Miss Westlake 
disappointedly, as Electa arranged pen, ink, paper, 
and books upon the table. 

“ Not just yet.” 

“I want to say some hymns to you first; they 
will take up my mind.” 

“ Would you like me to look on the book ?” 

“ Oh, yes; and correct me if I make a mistake. 
Patty never would.” 

Electa was learning that she must do the things 
that “ Patty never would.” 

“ The hymn book is in the closet behind the blue 
platter; it’s a little green book with my father’s 
name printed on it.” 


218 


ELECTA, 


Electa cut the broken candle in two, relighted 
it, and went to the closet for the hymn book. 
Very contentedly Miss Westlake began to recite 
the first hymn — 

“ ‘ There is a God, who reigns above, 

Lord of the heaven and earth and seas; 

I fear His wrath, I ask His love, 

And with my lips I sing His praise. 

“ ‘ There is a law which He has writ. 

To teach us all what we must do; 

My soul to His commands submit. 

For they are holy, just, and true.’ ” 

There were five stanzas in this first hymn ; she 
repeated it, without one mistake, in a pleasant 
recitative. 

“ Shall I go on ? ” she asked. 

“Oh, yes; till you can’t go on any longer?” 

Fifteen were recited; the listener’s interest began 
to flag, but not Miss Westlake’s. Electa turned to 
the page before the Doxologies, and learned that 
the last hymn was number five hundred and ninety- 
nine. 

“I won’t say them all to-night,” smiled Miss 
Westlake; “it will take several evenings. Oh, 
how many nights I’ve said hymns till midnight. 
Would you like to hear a few Psalms to-night?” 

Electa thought of her letter to Celia and the 
first, tempting blank page of her journal, but after 
a slight hesitancy, arose and brought the Bible to 
the table. Miss Westlake’s voice sank to a solemn 
monotone, she kept a Bible voice for her Bible 


A LONG DAY. 


219 


words. Electa’s father read the Psalms as if he 
were pouring them out of his own heart. 

“I expect that you are tired now,” exclaimed 
Miss Westlake, as she finished the tenth Psalm; 
“ read to me a little while, and then the watchers 
will come and we can go to bed ? ” 

‘^What shall I read?” 

“Any thing; what is that book close to my 
glasses ? ” 

“ ‘ Moffat’s Southern Africa.’ ” 

“That will do; read anywhere.” 

The leaves of the book were yellowed and 
spotted; it had such a delightful old smell; Electa 
was not decided as to which she liked better, the 
delightful old smell or the delightful Tieio smell of 
books. Turning the leaves her eyes caught the 
interesting sentence. — “We had travelled all day 
over a sandy plain, and passed a sleepless night 
from extreme thirst and fatigue.” This appeared 
exciting; she laid the book upon the table, and 
resting her head upon her hand, began to read in 
a lively, story-telling voice. 

“ ‘ Rising early in the morning, and leaving the 
people to get the wagon ready to follow, I went 
forward with one of our number to see if we could 
not perceive some indications of water, by the foot- 
marks of game; for it was in a part of the country 
where we could not expect the traces of man. 
After passing a ridge of hills and advancing a 
considerable way on the plain, we discovered at 
a distance a little smoke rising amidst a few 


220 


ELECTA. 


bushes which seemed to skirt a ravine. Animated 
with the prospect, we hastened forward, eagerly 
anticipating a delicious draught of water, no mat- 
ter what the quality might be. When we had 
arrived within a few hundred yards of the spot we 
stood still, startled at the fresh marks of lions 
which appeared to have been there only an hour 
before us. We had no guns, being too tired to 
carry them, and we hesitated for a moment 
whether to proceed or return. The wagon was 
yet distant and thirst impelled us to go on; but 
it was with caution, keeping a sharp lookout at 
every bush we passed. On reaching the spot we 
beheld an object of heart-rending distress. It was 
a venerable looking old woman, a living skeleton, 
sitting with her head leaning on her knees. She 
appeared terrified at our presence, and especially 
at me. She tried to rise, but, trembling with 
weakness, sank again to the earth. I addressed 
her by the name that sounds sweet in every clime 
and charms even the savage ear — “ Why, mother, 
fear not; we are friends and will do you no harm.” 
I put several questions to her, but she appeared 
either speechless or afraid to open her lips. I 
again repeated: “Pray, mother, who are you, and 
how came you to be in this situation ? ” To which 
she replied: “I am a woman; I have been here 
four days; my children have left me here to die.” 

“ ‘ “Your children ? ” I interrupted. 

“ ‘ “Yes,” raising her hand to her shrivelled 
bosom, “my own children, three sons and two 


A LONG DAY. 


221 


daughters. They are gone/’ pointing with her 
finger, “to yonder blue mountain, and have left 
me to die.” 

“‘“And pray why did they leave you?” I 
inquired. 

“ ‘ Spreading out her hands^ “ I am old, you see, 
and I am no longer able to serve them; when they 
kill game I am too feeble to help in carrying home 
the flesh; I am not able to gather wood to make 
a fire; and I can not carry their children on my 
back as I used to do.” 

“‘This last sentence was more than I could 
bear; and, though my tongue was cleaving to the 
roof of my mouth for want of water, this reply 
opened a fountain of tears. I remarked that I was 
surprised that she had escaped the lions which 
seemed to abound and to have approached very 
near the spot where she was. She took hold of 
the skin of her left arm with her fingers, and 
raising it up as one would do a loose linen, she 
added: “I hear the lions, but there is nothing on 
me that they would eat. I have no flesh on me 
for them to scent.” At this moment the wagon 
drew near, which greatly alarmed her, for she sup- 
posed that it was an animal. Assuring her that it 
would do her no harm, I said that as I could not 
stay I would put her into the wagon and take her 
with me. At this remark she became convulsed 
with terror. Others addressed her, but all to no 
effect. She replied that if we took her and left her 
at another village, they would only do the same 


222 


ELECTA, 


thing again. “It is our custom ; I am nearly dead, 
I do not want to die again.” 

“‘The sun was now piercingly hot; the oxen 
were raging in the yoke, and we ourselves nearly 
delirious. Finding it impossible to influence the 
woman to move without running the risk of her 
dying convulsed in our hands, we collected a 
quantity of fuel, gave her a good supply of dry 
meat, some tobacco, and a knife, with some other 
articles, telling her we should return in two days 
and stop the night, when she would be able to go 
with us, only she must keep up a good Are at night, 
as the lions would smell the dried flesh, if they did 
not scent her. We then pursued our course, and, 
after a long ride, passing a rocky ridge of hills, we 
came to a stagnant pool, into which men and oxen 
rushed precipitately, though the water was almost 
too muddy to go down our throats. 

“ ‘ On our return to the spot according to prom- 
ise, we found the old woman and every thing 
gone; but, on examination discovered the foot- 
marks of two men, from the hills referred to, who 
appeared to have taken her away. Several months 
afterwards I learned from an individual who visited 
the station, that the sons, seeing from a distance 
the wagon halt at the spot where they had so un- 
naturally left their mother to perish, came to see, 
supposing that the travellers had been viewing the 
mangled remains of their mother. Finding her 
alive and supplied with food, and on her telling 
the story of the strangers’ kindness, they were 


A LONG DAY. 


223 


alarmed, and dreading the vengeance of the great 
chief, whom they supposed me to be, took her 
home and were providing for her with more than 
usual care.’ ” 

“ What a blessed thing that he happened there 
just then!” exclaimed Miss Westlake. “And I 
have murmured about my life. I am a happy old 
woman, after all 1 ” 

Electa did not speak her thoughts. That dread- 
ful thing happened out in God’s world. But He 
had thought about the poor mother who had not 
taught her little children about Morimo, and 
moved towards her the feet of the missionary. 
She would tell Trude about this. Trude’s day- 
dream was to go to Africa. 

“Don’t begin in the middle, child; turn back to 
the beginning, I want to hear it all ; it sounds like 
him telling it when you read.” 

Electa’s fingers were on her pen ; Mr. Ryle had 
promised to send a line to her father announcing 
her safe arrival, but she wanted to open her heart 
to Celia; she felt as if she could not sleep until she 
had written to Celia. 

“Begin at the very beginning, child,” Miss West- 
lake said again. 

With no movement of impatience she turned the 
leaves and began at the very beginning. She saw 
the words and pronounced them correctly ; she tried 
to read in a wide-awake voice, but sudden home- 
sickness so overwhelmed her that she knew not 
what she was reading. Page after page she read, 


224 


ELECTA. 


her voice changing at last into a weary monotone ; 
the clock struck eight, and Miss Westlake, with 
her head upon one side, was fast asleep. The 
watchers had not come, and, drearier still, Mr. Ryle 
had not come. If she could but hear his voice or 
behold his face one moment! Her heart would 
burst if somebody did not come; she dropped her/ 
head upon the table moaning: “Oh, mammal oh, 
Celia 1 oh, papa, papa I' ” 

God’s world was a very empty place to her to- 
night; the places and things in it seemed very far 
apart, and the spaces between so wide, so empty. 
It was a long, rainy way to Mr. Ryle and his beau 
tiful mother, and a longer, longer way to The Bee 
hive, with nothing but emptiness between it and 
her. Cousin Patty was asleep, — no. Cousin Patty 
was awake, and Cousin Jane was asleep, and she 
was all alone. She moved the table and her chair 
nearer Miss Westlake’s chair, so near that she 
might touch her hand, and sat down to write to 
Celia. She had left home, partly that Celia might 
not leave home ; must she not therefore write her a 
cheery letter ? 

Like papa, her sunny side was sunshine itself. 
This letter was so sweet and sunny that even papa 
was puzzled and wondered at the brightness of the 
child. He would not have wondered had he seen 
her head drop upon the table and heard the suppli- 
cation of her heart before she wrote “Dear every 
body at home.” It was a letter wholly outside 
of herself. She laughed about not kindling the 


A LONG DAY. 


225 


fire and the broken pitcher, and told them how she 
had lost her way upstairs in the dark and stayed 
years before Cousin Jane called. Celia said that 
her story of Patty’s life and death was a little poem, 
She was sure that Electa would do the wonderful 
thing in the family. 

The letter was written and nine o’clock had 
struck, three pages in her journal were written. 
Pollok read awhile, and ten o’clock had struck. 
Cousin Jane opened her eyes and looked around 
sleepily. 

“What, nobody come yet! Was that ten? I 
know now what I did I I got confused and mixed 
things up, and that’s why nobody has come. I told 
Mr. Truman that Mr. Lewis and his wife were 
coming, and I told Mrs. Lewis, — I’m sure I don’t 
know what I did tell her; and I sent word by the 
undertaker that — well, I hardly know what I did 
say. Lecty, we’ll have to stay alone. I have 
their supper all ready, too. We’ll go in and see if 
she’s all right and comfortable, and then go to bed, 
shall we ? Your eyes are round and wide open ! ” 

“Well,” assented Electa, “but I wish somebody 
had come.” 

“ I don’t care, I like to be alone with you; I feel 
as if you made the house full.” 

As they went out into the hall their footsteps 
sounded very loud to Electa. Miss Westlake held 
the light, fearing that Electa might drop it and set 
the house on fire, while Electa unlocked the door. 
Unchanged and still was the little, old face. 


226 


ELECTA. 


“ I’m glad she had as good times as she had,” 
Miss Westlake said; “think of that poor old woman, 
among the lions, starving to death. Patty hadn’t 
any trouble but the trouble she made for herself” 
The candle flickered as they went out into the 
hall ; was any house ever so large and quiet before ? 
Electa slept and dreamed of home. Miss Westlake 
slept and dreamed that she and Patty were little 
girls going to school together and telling each 
other what they would do when they were grown 
up ; Mr. Ryle remembered Electa, but he had been 
called three miles from home to see a dying man as 
he had turned his horse’s head toward Walnut 
Grove; he thought of her as he fell asleep, and 
planned to visit her on Monday; his mother felt 
again the touch of Electa’s hand and lips and her 
soft, long hair; she prayed for David before she 
slept and for David’s wife. And David’s wife, not 
knowing that she was David’s wife and that some- 
body’s faith and prayers were bringing her a bless- 
ing, being restless and unable to sleep, comforted 
herself with repeating the hymn beginning with 
such a world of comfort: 

“ Father, I know that all my life 
Is portioned out for me.” 


X. 


ADOPTED. 

Another day of heavy, hard rain. Electa felt as 
if it had rained forever and would go on raining 
forever. 

“ Patty used to like to hear it rain,” said Cousin 
J ane. ^ 

Electa mused as she dressed, and mused as she 
ate her breakfast. “ I wish that I might do one 
little, last thing for her,” she was thinking. 

But the one little thing she could not think of; 
neighbors whom Patty had not seen for years had 
dressed her in a white robe and laid her in her 
casket, they had smoothed her hair and laid to- 
gether her busy hands ; there was nothing left for 
the little girl that came in the storm to do. 

“Did she like flowers?” she questioned, sud- 
denly breaking her boiled egg carefully. 

There was but one “she” in the world to Patty’s 
sister. “Flowers! No, she didn’t seem to care 
much for them; only that southernwood; I took 
a piece of that and laid it on her pillow the day 
she died.” 

“ I wish I could find some autumn leaves and 
make a cross. Wilt people bring flowers ? ” 


228 


ELECTA, 


“What for?” 

“I might put some southernwood in her hand; 
may I?” 

“ AVhy, yes, child, if you want to. Your egg is 
all getting cold, and you haven’t eaten a mouth- 
ful of toast.” 

“I’m not hungry. I’ll go in now,” decided Electa 
rising. 

“ I suppose people won’t come to-day ; only the 
minister to make a prayer with us; it will be a 
queer funeral without one mourner.” 

“ Do go ; I’ll go with you,” coaxed Electa. 

“Oh, I can’t; I couldn’t. How could I go among 
so many people ? I’m all dropping to pieces now ; I 
feel as if I wanted something or somebody to hold 
me together.” 

“It seems too bad to let strangers bury her,” 
said Electa. 

“ Does it ? I’ll tell her all about it when I see 
her, and she’ll understand; that is, if I don’t for- 
get. I do forget so ; when I woke up this morn- 
ing I thought that you were Cynthy Stairs that 
used to go to singing-school with me. Things are 
very crooked and mixed up to me. I think I’ll 
get Mr. Kyle to make my will before I forget what 
I want to do.” 

Electa went into the kitchen and picked three 
sprigs of southernwood; it seemed an easy thing 
to do until she looked down at the cold, stiff fin- 
gers that she must touch. She had not remembered 
that she must touch her hands. She had never felt 


ADOPTED. 


229 


the touch of a dead hand. The sprigs fell to the 
carpet, she could not do it, after all; Cousin Jane 
did not care, it could not make any difference to 
any body. She might think of something else that 
she could do. 

“ Lecty ! ” Miss Westlake had come to the door- 
way. “ I just thought why she doesn’t look 
natural to me ; they have plastered her hair down 
smooth on both sides and she always wore it 
pushed back. Just get her comb and brush and 
brush it back, and let me see how it looks. I won- 
dered what was the matter with her, now I know.” 

“Oh, I don’t want to; I don’t want to,” Electa 
cried within herself “ I can’t do it.” 

“I would do it myself, but I want to remember 
her soft and warm.” 

The quavering voice broke down ; Electa spoke 
quickly: “I’ll do it; where are the comb and 
brush?” 

“On the bureau in her room.” 

Miss Westlake went out to pick up the kin- 
dlings for Electa to build a fire in the room across 
the hall; “Mother’s room,” she called it. Electa 
stood with the southernwood in her hand looking 
down at the face and hands that she dreaded un- 
utterably to touch. She did not like to touch any 
one unless she loved them ; never of her own ac- 
cord would she shake hands with a stranger. She 
had wanted to do some little thing, and noAV this 
hard thing was given her to do. If the desire to 
do come from God, must not the opportunity and 


230 


ELECTA. 


the thing to do come from Him, also ? Electa did 
not put this thought into words ; after one waver- 
ing instant she went upstairs for brush and comb. 

Lifting the hair with her fingers to loosen it, 
she brushed it back ; with the first shrinking touch 
her dread was taken away ; after that it was not 
hard to place the fragrant green sprigs in the 
hands, even to move the fingers so that they 
might clasp it. 

“ Oh, how nice and pretty ! ” exclaimed Miss 
Westlake, coming to the threshold with an armful 
of wood and kindlings. “Now I’m happy and com- 
fortable.” She tottered across the hall murmur- 
ing: “ Nobody needs me now.” 

The day did not seem like Sunday to Electa, it 
was like yesterday. “ I can’t go to church,” she 
said to herself as she opened the stove door to 
kindle the fire. “ I can’t see any body at home or 
Mr. Eyle or his mother or John Gray, and I can’t 
have a letter ! Oh, dear ! And it rains and the 
house is so still, and to-night it will be stiller.” 

The fire went out; but at the second attempt 
she succeeded; she brought one chair nearer the 
fire, placed another nearer the window, re-arranged 
the books on the table, and then her morning’s 
work was done. The long day would be more 
endless than yesterday. Sunday was their best 
day at home, because mamma could give all her 
time to them and Celia’s busy-ness was laid aside 
until to-morrow. 

Miss Westlake opened the door and looked in; 


ADOPTED. 


231 


the muscles of her face were drawn as if in physi- 
cal pain, and when she spoke Electa noticed that 
her voice had lost its self-control. “ I’ve taken my 
last look at Patty; don’t let people look at me and 
talk to me,” she pleaded, staggering into the room. 

Electa sprang forward and led her to her mother’s 
chair, brought her a footstool, and gently pressed 
her head against the cushioned back of the chair, 
then seating herself on the carpet between the 
chair and the window, she began to sing softly. 
The rain beat against the panes, the fire cracked. 
Electa sang on and on. 

Among the books on the table she had noticed 
one with the title: “Solitude Sweetened.” There 
might be something in it for Cousin Jane; there 
might be something in it for herself Eagerly she 
opened it ; it was a book of meditations. She glanced 
through it. “Providence, Disappointments, Expe- 
rience, Resignation, Death, On a Blind Beggar, After 
Sickness, Going to a Fair, A Journey along the Sea- 
shore, Prayer, Contradictions, On the Author’s first 
Using Glasses, On Casting our Care on God, A 
Glance at the Glories on the other Side Creation.” 

These were but a part of the themes. Cousin 
Jane would like the last one. They were written 
long ago ; she would like them because they were 
old. 

The old lady was leaning back in her chair, the 
slow tears rolling unheeded down her cheeks. 
Stationing herself on the carpet under the window. 
Electa opened the book at random and read aloud. 


232 


ELECTA. 


The companionship in the tone was all that the 
listener felt ; the words and thoughts she could not 
grasp. One thought Electa found for herself: “The 
Father hath loved the Son and given all things 
into His hand; the Son hath loved us and given 
us all things richly to enjoy.” She was not enjoy- 
ing the “all things” to-day. 

Page after page she read in her musical, sympa- 
thetic voice; the reddened, quivering eyelids be- 
came still, the tears dried upon the cheeks, a smile 
touched her lips as Cousin Jane slept. 

Electa leaned back against the wall sighing for 
something to do; there was nothing to do but 
think, and she was tired of thinking ; outside of her- 
self was this room and Cousin Jane and the wind- 
ing, muddy road and the houses dark through the 
rain. There were strangers in all the houses; if she 
should follow the road for miles and miles she 
would meet more strangers. Far down the road — 
she had lifted her head to look out — a wagon with 
a black top, drawn by two horses, was approaching, 
and not far off, a church bell was sounding. At 
home they were on the way to church; Vail would 
miss her in church, and perhaps papa would when 
he looked down at the parsonage pew. There 
were so many to be missed now beside herself — 
Marty n and Arch and Trude and Robin. Were 
any of them as desolate as she was? But no one 
needed her as Cousin Jane needed her; if Cousin 
Jane should awake and find her gone, she would 
call her and no one else. In all the world there 


ADOPTED. 


233 


was no one so near to Cousin Jane as she was. 
A low tap was at the door, the door-knob turned; 
Electa sprang to her feet ; before she could speak 
John Gray had opened the door. 

“ Oh, I’m so glad ! ” she exclaimed joyously. 

“ I came to see if I could be of use,” he whispered 
coming towards her. He was dressed in a suit of 
coarse gray, his shirt was of unbleached muslin, and 
his boots the heaviest that she had ever seen. 

He intercepted her glance at his boots. “ I know 
I don’t dress well,” he said, coloring painfully; 
“ but I have so little money, and I must have a book 
now and then.” 

“Why I didn’t — what did I do?” she asked 
smiling. 

“You thought that I do not look like your 
brothers.” 

“No, you don’t; my brothers are not at all hand- 
some,” she said unconsciously, thinking of them and 
not of him. 

“ I would have come last night, but it was dark 
and late when I got home from Swanzey; if Mr. 
]\Iorris had not forgotten his basket of groceries I 
shouldn’t have gone to Swanzey at all, and if I had 
not caught my toe and tripped exactly in front of . 
— but that’s telling; what would you like to have 
more than any thing ? ” 

“Something to read; no, I know! oh, you haven’t 
brought me a letter I ” 

“Something very like it,” he said his face as 
beaming as her own, as he unbuttoned his jacket 


234 


ELECTA. 


and drew from his vest pocket a large business 
like envelope. 

“ From Arch ! Oh, the dear boy ! And he wrote 
to Swanzey instead of Walnut Grove ! And he 
meant it to meet me; I might have had it Friday, 
perhaps; I do thank you so very much.” 

John Gray could not help saying: “I thank you, 
too,” then wondered what he meant. He told Mr. 
Kyle afterward that Electa Given’s attractiveness 
consisted in her “ unexpectedness.” 

“Is there any tiling that I can do for Miss 
Jane?” 

“I don’t know; I don’t like to awaken her to 
ask,” she answered, opening her envelope. 

“Don’t do that; I’m in no hurry.” 

“ Will you sit down and read ? ” 

“I’ll find something to do,” he said gravely, a 
gleam of fun brightening his eyes. 

Electa went back to the carpet between Miss 
Westlake’s chair and the window to read her let- 
ter hastily, then to read it slowly. It was just like 
Arch to think of her. 

John Gray went out into the hall and stood 
there looking around ; he was seeking a good place 
to hide something. On the hall table, under the 
sheet of yellow wrapping paper, half hidden and 
half revealed, he placed another envelope; then 
taking another from his breast pocket he went 
lightly upstairs ; Electa’s door stood open, it would 
be just what she needed at bedtime after the long 
day. This writing was daintily pretty and the post- 


ADOPTED. 


235 


raarlv Washington; but she would think it intru- 
sive for him to enter; the letter was not a trunk, 
he had no excuse for taking this upstairs; so with 
a disappointed air he turned and came down. If 
he had a sister or a mother she should have a cosey 
chamber like that. What would Electa think of his 
carpetless floor, bare walls, and hard bed ! But his 
trunk had books in it; she would appreciate them. 

The third letter must have another hiding-place ; 
how could he manage for her to have it at night 
nnder her pillow? He might keep it until Miss 
Jane awoke. And the fourth ! How he would 
love to see her face each time. This was a thick 
letter, and the penmanship was like a school girl’s. 
She had so many to write to her and he had not 
one. Keturning the Washington letter to his 
pocket, he found a place for the school girl’s letter, 
in the closet in the kitchen, in a large platter. 
She would surely go to that closet at dinner-time. 

“ Cousin Jane is awake ! ” 

He started guiltily, confused and stammering* he 
tried to speak. Electa was silent and indignant. 
John Gray was certainly not a gentleman. She 
almost said, “Are you looking for something to 
eat ? ” She had intended to read Arch’s letter to 
him, but she was too disappointed in him; she 
could never honor him again. She remained in 
the kitchen while he went into “ mother’s room ” 
to speak to Miss Westlake; she was not in the 
kitchen when he passed through to go out. He 
lingered, hoping that she would return to speak to 


236 


ELECTA. 


him, then laughed as he ran down the steps into 
the shed, for how indignant she would be at her- 
self for misjudging him ! 

J^ohn Gray never made a shadow in his life by 
putting himself between himself and the li^h^ 
With his single eye he could see clearly. He never 
did any thing that he was ashamed of, therefore 
how could he, for longer than one moment, feel 
ashamed? He had trained himself to look out- 
side of himself Had Electa found herself likely 
to be misjudged she would not have eaten or slept 
till all was explained ; but he tossed his annoyance 
away with a laugh; there was nothing morbid in 
his heart or mind. He could become as a breezy 
west wind to Electa, if she would not be too mor- 
bidly sensitive to bear his influence. After he 
went away she came down-stairs, pale and quiet; 
she had made a hero of John Gray, and to And 
her hero poking around in a stranger’s kitchen 
closet was not at all ludicrous, it was humiliating. 

But what was that ? A letter under that wrap- 
ping paper! Another letter? How silly she was! 
She would not even look. She could not keep her 
eyes from peeping however. It loas a letter, and 
from Martyn ! It was just like Martyn to think 
of her. She could almost forgive John Gray, for 
the sake of this surprise. 

Sitting on the stairs, her eyes fllled with happy 
tears as she read the letter. Martyn would have 
made a vow to write a letter for every Sunday 
could he have seen her face ! For fully three min- 


ADOPTED. 


237 


xites she forgot the gloom outside and the gloom 
inside. What a different day this would have 
been had not Mr. Morris forgotten his basket of 
groceries, and had not John Gray stumbled in front 
of the post-office ! What a different day this would 
have been had not the boys forgotten that they 
were to write to Walnut Grove and had they neg- 
lected to write to Swanzey instead ? Were these 
the things that papa called providences? Prov- 
idences, she thought, were to teach the great 
events in people’s lives, to change the fate of a 
nation or to save the life of a king; she hardly 
dared call the slight happenings that brought her 
letters to her by such an awe-inspiring name. 
Still, — balancing the letter on her hand as she 
reasoned, — how could she thank God for them if 
He had not done it, and she did want to thank 
Him ; not Arch, or Martyn ; only God, could know 
how much they were to her. The letters were of 
one sheet of mercantile note each; not girls’ newsy, 
chatty letters, but brief, rather business-like, good, 
and kind, and brotherly, and so much like home. 
Now if she could have a letter from one of tho 
girls, from Trude, or Robin, she would be satisfied 
— almost. They were away from home having a 
good time ; if they would only think of her ! 

The letters were reread and looked at and laid 
away, and book after book opened, glanced through, 
and thrown down. There did not seem to be a 
young book in the house. 

“Boston’s fourfold State.” The title was not at- 


238 


ELECTA. 


tractive, but she read the title page carefully: 
“Human Nature in its Fourfold State; of Primitive 
Integrity, Entire Depravity, Begun Kecovery, and 
Consummate Happiness or Miseiy; Subsisting in 
the Parents of Mankind in Paradise, the Unregen- 
erate, the Regenerate, and all Mankind in the Fu- 
ture State.” She turned the pages and read sen- 
tences, now and then a paragraph ; it was too hard 
for her, too grown up, she could not understand it. 
The next book that she opened, — these were in the 
secretary in her own chamber, — was a leather- 
bound, stained and spotted cover of a volume 
of “ Plutarch’s Lives,” translated from the original 
Greek, with notes critical and historical. It was 
in eight volumes; this was volume third. She 
opened to Antony and became absorbed; ancient 
history had always been among her favorite studies ; 
suddenly the book dropped from her hand: was 
this Sunday reading ? Was it right to be laughing 
over an anecdote of Antony and Cleopatra and to 
remember that she must write to Arch that Cle- 
opatra had made fun of Antony by ordering one 
of her divers to put a salt fish upon his hook while 
he was fishing ? Replacing it she opened another, 
bound in leather, stained and pencil marked. “ Pa- 
ley’s Moral and Political Philosophy.” Ah, she 
might read that, for her eyes caught the words: 
“ Duty and efiicacy of prayer as seen by the light 
of nature.” 

The subject of prayer was of intense interest to 
her; she lost herself in the book and was aroused 


ADOPTED. 


239 


only by a change of subject. “ Subjection to Civil 
Government,” she certainly did not care to read. 
“ Eeligious Experience.” That might be something 
interesting and good, there might be something of 
a story about it; she exclaimed with delight at 
lighting upon the words: “Considerations on 
dreams, visions, and so forth.” This book she 
could enjoy; with a brightened face she took it 
down-stairs to her seat on the carpet between Miss 
Westlake’s chair and the window and read for an 
hour. It was not a story book, but there were 
incidents and illustrations that interested her, that 
comforted and helped, that answered some of the 
questions she had been too shy to ask. 

The long morning passed and no one came. 
The black top wagon passed on its way home from 
church, and again she watched it as long as she 
could see it. She brought in wood for the fires 
and swept the ashes back from the hearth of the 
Franklin. Miss Westlake dozed, seldom stirring, 
she appeared to sleep restfully, and Electa, although 
longing to speak to her, to hear the sound of her 
voice, did not by sound or touch awaken her. 

“ I want somebody to speak to me,” she almost 
sobbed, as the wind rattled the window frames and 
caused the shutters upstairs to bang and slam 
against the house. “ Cousin Jane,” she whispered, 
rising and touching her hand; “Cousin Jane,” she 
said aloud, “shall I get dinner now?” Suppose 
that Cousin Jane should not move or speak? Sup- 
pose that she had stopped breathing ? She laughed 


240 


ELECTA, 


when the old lady stirred, opened her eyes, and 
looked up at her; she would have kissed her for 
very joy had she not been so shy. 

“I don’t want any dinner; get some for your- 
self; there’s cold beef and apple pie and currant 
jelly and biscuits. Are you hungry? ” 

“ Yes’m, I am ; wont you eat with me ? I don’t 
like to eat alone, I never ate alone in my life.” 

“ I couldn’t swallow a mouthful, child; eat your 
own dinner and don’t trouble me.” 

Electa turned away; the voice was childish and 
fretful, her cheeks were burning and her hands 
hoi 

“ I will go upstairs and lie down in my own bed 
where I used to sleep with Patty; what time is it?” 

“About one o’clock.” 

“I’ll stay till it’s all over; don’t let any body 
look at me or speak to me; I want to go to sleep.” 

“But the minister will come,” expostulated Electa. 

“No matter for the minister; do as I tell you. I 
want to be alone ; don’t call me, whatever happens.” 

“There’s nothing to happen,” said Electa; “I 
wish something would.” 

“ Give Lily some hay, and pump her trough full 
of water, can I trust you to do that ? ” asked Miss 
Westlake, rising with difficulty. 

“ Try me and see.” 

“ There’s no hay down ; you will have to go up 
the ladder into the mow and throw it down; be 
careful and not fall, and don’t hurt yourself with 
the fork. Did you ever do such a thing ? ” 


ADOPTED. 


241 


“No; but if you can do it, I ought to be able to.” 

“Well, child, don’t hurt yourself, and eat a good 
dinner,” she said, putting out her hands as if she 
could not see the way. “ I am glad it storms, for 
it keeps people from rushing here.” 

For the first time in her life Electa wished that 
people would come. She would never again wish 
for solitude. 

“ Lean on me. Cousin Jane.” 

“ I might as well lean on a wisp of straw,” she 
answered tenderly. 

Electa took her hand and led her through the 
hall and upstairs through the chamber they had 
shared together into Patty’s room. Patty’s bed 
was soft and warm, the sheets and blankets were 
sweet with the perfume of the damask rose. Electa 
untied her shoes and slipped them off, unbuttoned 
her dress, and arranged the pillows as she dictated, 
wrapping her in a blanket and tucking her in as 
if she were a little child. 

“Thank you,” she said; “I need you, but nobody 
needs me now; it’s all over, and I can go to sleep. 
Patty won’t get out, and nothing will happen to 
her, and nobody will know. Feed Lily and get 
yourself a good dinner, and let me go to sleep.” 

“ May I bring you a cup of tea ? ” 

“No, nothing; I don’t want any thing,” she said 
decidedly. 

Electa looked around the room ; every thing was 
in perfect order. There was nothing that she 
could do. She might not even sit and watch her 


242 


ELECTA, 


as she slept, she might not fan her or bathe her 
head; there was not a thread to be picked from 
the carpet, there was not a speck of dust anywhere. 
All she might do was to step softly out, leaving 
the door ajar that she might hear if Cousin Jane 
should call. 

There was no one down-stairs to do any thing 
for; no one that needed her nearer than a hundred 
miles; the house seemed to grow more silent and 
empty every hour. Oh, the full, full house at 
home. Oh, the happy noises, the footsteps, the 
voices, the low laughter, the moving in and out, 
the opening and shutting doors, the gentle Sunday 
bustle. If she might only hear a sound, any sound 
save the occasional bang of a shutter, or the tick- 
ing of the clock, or the snapping of the fire ; any 
sound beside the ceaseless rain and the wind. Her 
own light footsteps startled her; as she closed the 
sitting-room door, she shivered at the sound ; should 
she close it, thus shutting herself in and shutting 
Cousin Jane out ? She felt that she should choke 
if she attempted to eat. 

But Lily must eat if she could not; throwing 
her shawl about her, and leaving each door open 
behind her as if for protection, she hardly knew 
from what, she hurried out through the shed to 
the brick walk, glad of the rain that fell upon her 
uncovered head, glad of her firm foothold upon 
the bricks. She had felt as^if every thing were 
slipping away under her feet. 

Beautiful, white Lily stood waiting for her, 


ADOPTED, 


243 


or for somebody, in meditative content. Electa 
patted her and asked her if she liked to be out 
there alone, and passed through into the barn 
floor. She dreaded the ascent of the ladder, she 
dreaded stepping into the mow. Trade and Eobin 
would have thought it fun, but she had never 
romped in the barn as they had done. But some- 
body had anticipated her, the hay was already 
thrown down; not enough for to-day, but enough 
for a week. 

“Somebody is very good,” she said aloud, for 
the sake of hearing her own voice. Gathering the 
hay upon the fork she lifted it above her head and 
carried it into Lily’s stable, tossing it down before 
her. 

“Are you ready for your dinner?” she asked. 
“ Don’t you care if you must eat alone ? Doesn’t 
your heart ever ache? Don’t you know what to 
cry for ? ” 

Keturning several times she spread an abund- 
ance of hay around Lily; fresh straw had been laid 
for her bed, and the trough was filled with water. 
After looking around to see that Lily was comfort 
able she went into the barn floor and sat down 
upon a pile of hay. The rain fell heavily upon the 
roof; through the two small windows she could 
see the evergreens bending before the storm. She 
wondered if she might bring her dinner and eat 
it sitting upon the. hay; with Lily so near, and a 
book and the hay that reminded her of home ; she 
would not be so desolate as in the empty house. 


244 


ELECTA, 


with the still presence down-stairs and the sleeping 
presence upstairs. But the minister must come 
soon and the people — and the minister might be 
like papa. Oh, if it only might be Mr. Ryle? 
Rising very slowly she again wrapped herself in 
her shawl and went into the house. 

“ I can’t eat,” she said, standing before the 
kitchen stove; “but it would be something to do.” 
It would be too lonely to set the table and sit 
down and make believe that it was dinner-time; 
she decided to take a piece of pie in her hand and 
eat as she read. She opened the door into the hall 
and listened: not a sound, not a new sound; Cousin 
Jane must be asleep. 

The pie was in the kitchen closet ; she had cut a 
piece and taken it into her hand when she felt 
moved to turn back, not with any design, simply 
from impulse, and there in the platter was laid 
Trade’s letter ! 

With a cry she burst into tears. It was almost 
too good to be true. And Trude had been think- 
ing of her, too. Forgetting the pie, she dropped 
it into the platter and opened the letter. It was a 
foolscap sheet. Chatty and newsy, full of frolic, 
and study, good resolutions, plans for the future, 
and gratitude to all at home ; full of sympathy for 
her, suggestions as to how she should pass her 
time and calling her a darling, self-denying, little 
sister. 

“She doesn’t know that it’s for her,” thought 
Electa, smiling through happy tears. 


ADOPTED. 


24S 


After that, how could she but eat a good dinner ? 
At the appointed time the minister came ; a grave 
young man, who shook hands kindly with her and 
prayed with her, promising to call upon Miss West- 
lake through the week. Men came and carried 
the casket, enclosed in a pine box, down the piazza 
steps, down the long path to the gate, and pushed 
it into the hearse. Electa stood on the piazza till 
they started, the minister in his buggy, the hearse 
with its plumes following; through the mud and 
the dismal rain they passed on out of her sight. 
Patty was gone; she and Jane were all alone now. 
She locked and bolted the door, locking the door 
of the room where Patty had lain, and then went 
into “ mother’s room ” to see if the fire were burn- 
ing. It was almost out, one stick of wood remained 
in the wood box; she put it on the fire, and then 
went to the windows to look up the road and 
down the road. Somebody was coming; was 
it a man or a boy ? It could not be John Gray. 
Oh if it only were ! She would not look again and 
he disappointed, she would go upstairs and tell 
Cousin Jane about the minister. 

“I heard them,” said Miss Westlake, rising and 
tossing the blankets aside. 

“Now will you come down?” cried Electa, joy- 
fully; “and, oh, I found another letter! I’ll read 
it to you, and make you a cup of tea, and we’ll be 
as comfortable as we know how to be.” 

With gentle persuasion she coaxed Miss West- 
lake into tlie rocker before the Franklin, and 


246 


ELECTA. 


busied herself in setting the table and making 
tea. 

As Electa was stooping over the stove pouring 
the hot water into the brown teapot, there was a 
step in the shed. 

“May I come again?” asked John Gray, his 
head appearing at the kitchen door; “may I come 
all the time ? ” 

“ Oh, I thank you ! I do thank you ! ” exclaimed 
Electa, so startled that she sprinkled hot water 
over her hand. 

“ Mrs. Morris sent me to stay all night,” he said, 
coming in. 

“We don’t need you,” Miss Westlake called 
out; “ but come in and stay.” 

“We do need you,” said Electa in a low tone. 

“Of course you need me. Miss Jane,” he said; 
“don’t you want a grandson? I’m in pressing 
need of a grandmother.” He went to her and 
stood at her side ; Electa entered with the teapot 
in her hand. 

“ My children,” the quavering voice broke down, 
ending with a sob; “my children. I’ll take you 
both, if you will only stay with a lonesome old 
woman like me.” 

“All right, grandma,” John Gray bent over and 
kissed her forehead. “ Now I belong to you and you 
to me ; I never belonged to any one before. Come, 
Cousin Electa, and kiss your grandmother.” 

Electa came shyly and kissed her. 

“Now we are adopted all round,” cried John 


ADOPTED, 


247 


Gray, gayly; “and if I’m not good to you, grand- 
ma, may nobody ever be good to me.” 

Like a flash of light came the thought to Miss 
Westlake: “Now I know what the Lord wants 
my money for; I’ll adopt John Gray and educate 
him.” 

But she answered as quietly as if there were not 
a tumult of joy within her: “Then you must eat 
something with me, and read to me by and by; 
and to-morrow we’ll make our plans. You must 
come and live with me, of course.” 

Electa almost shouted. Was it possible that she 
would never be so lonely and homesick again? 
Was her hard time over so soon ? 

“ I knew something was ready to happen,” said 
John Gray; “ my inheritance hasn’t failed yet.” 

“ What is your inheritance ? ” questioned Electa 
wonderingly. 

“‘God’s providence is mine inheritance,’” he 
quoted reverently. 


XI. 


THE DOOB AJAB. 

Miss AVestlake held an open book in her hand, 
but she could not fix her eyes upon its pages ; de- 
spite the thought that it was Sunday and the day 
of Patty’s funeral she could not lose herself in her 
usual Sunday reading. The small, leather-bound, 
stained volume dropped again and again from her 
fingers as her eyes wandered to the table where 
they were sitting, — her children, her two children, 
who were being given to her after her long years 
of “ expecting things.” 

The dark face and the fair face both so alive, so 
young, so eager! The old blood in her veins 
throbbed and leaped. God was setting the soli- 
tary in a family; like Hannah her countenance 
would be no more sad. 

With an effort she brought her eyes back to her 
book: “The Christian’s Great Interest; in Two 
Parts. I. The Trial of a saving Interest in Christ. 
11. The Way how to Attain it.” On the coarse 
fly-leaf in a bold hand was written: “Catherine 
Westlake, her book, 1797.” 

A pile of old books had been placed on the table 


THE DOOR AJAR. 


249 


between the children ; once in a while each read a 
separate book, but oftener the two heads were bent 
together over the same musty volume. 

“ You ask me the questions, and see how many 
I can answer,” John was saying. 

But, no, she must not listen, she must not allow 
her thoughts to wander; for fifty years she had 
read a sermon on Sunday evening. She fastened 
her eyes upon the book and read: “ The believer 
may also be hourly with God, to go in daily with 
his failings, and seek repentance and pardon and 
peace through Christ’s advocateship.” 

The book dropped again ; the old wrists had sud- 
denly grown weak, the old eyes were refusing to 
read. The children were talking in subdued voices. 

“ ‘ Study without prayer is atheism,”’ John read. 
“ I believe that.” 

“So do I,” assented Electa warmly. “What are 
you going to be ? ” 

“A student all my life. I wish I dared show 
you something.” 

“ Don’t you ? Why don’t you ? ” 

“ Because I’m ashamed ; nobody knows. If you 
keep on being so kind, I believe I will. I’m faint- 
hearted now, through lack of encouragement ; but 
perhaps you may not encourage me.” 

“ I will if it’s worth it,” she promised. 

“ There’s the rub. I don’t believe it is. Genius 
is bold, they say; I’m not bold, therefore I can’t be 
a genius.” 

“John Gray,” Miss Westlake opened her^ eyes 


250 


ELECTA. 


and turned towards him, “ what do you want most 
to do?" 

“ Study," he replied promptly, “ and travel, and 
then settle down to hard work." 

“ Study what ? " 

“ Books, and things, and men ! " 

“ Travel where ? " 

“ Over our own grand, big country, from north 
to south, from east to west." 

“ What kind of hard work do you want to do ? " 

“Something to help men to know themselves 
and to know God." 

“ What is that something ? " 

“I haven’t decided yet." 

“ Preaching, isn’t it ? " 

“Teaching in some shape; I think," speaking 
slowly, “ that I shall choose to teach." 

“ I like that," cried Electa in a tone of great sat- 
isfaction ; “ don’t teach until you can do something 
better, but let the teaching be the something bet- 
ter. Teach boys all your life." 

“ And influence boys to love Christ as Arnold of 
Rugby did. I will. Electa." 

The tone awed Electa, she could not reply; with 
a little gush of gladness, her face brightened, then 
became grave. 

John Gray had chosen his life-work, why might 
not she ? 

Miss Westlake smiled contentedly, and closed 
her eyes again. Electa snufied the candle with 
the brass snuffers, set them in the brass tray, and 


THE DOOR AJAR. 


251 


ran her finger up and down the tall, smooth candle. 
John Gray had chosen, why could not she ? With 
a long breath, freighted with many thoughts, she 
opened “The Improvement of the Mind, by Isaac 
Watts, D.D.,” and began to read “Rules Relating 
to Observation.” 

“ Among all these observations write down what 
is most remarkable and uncommon,” she read. 

“Lecty,” the soft, wistful voice arrested her. 
“Lecty, what would you like to do?” 

“ Oh, I know,” closing the book, “ I think I know. 
IM like to open all this house and let sunshine in, 
and after the sunshine was in, I’d bring in flowers 
and music and little children that hadn’t had any 
sunshine and flowers and music, and I’d love them 
and teach them what John will teach his boys. I’d 
wash them and dress them and sing to them and 
tell them stories and have A^ail and Celia to help 
me.” 

“ And what would you do with me, pray ? ” 

“ Oh, you should be our lovely grandmother, and 
rock the babies to sleep.” 

“ I’m too old to bear the noise, child.” 

“There would be a noise, I suppose; laughing 
and singing and talking and moving around; I 
couldn’t keep them in bed all the time. This house 
should be as happy as The Beehive.” 

“But it would cost a great deal.” 

“Yes, I suppose it would cost something, but I’d 
keep cows, and raise my own fruit and vegetables, 
and the dress wouldn’t cost much, would it ? ” 


252 


ELECTA, 


“ Your children would have to grow up.” 

“ And go out in the world to do hard, good work ; 
then I’d get more little ones, and they should all 
learn beautiful things, and somebody would need 
every one of them ; they should all be willing to do 
any thing, if only they might help somebody. I’d 
have the motto of my house, ‘ Ourselves, your ser- 
vants, for Jesus’ sake.’ ” 

“I’ll take that for mine,” said John Gray; “I 
never thought of it before.” 

“I wish our air-castles couldn’t tumble down,” 
said Electa. “ I want mine to be real.” 

“Yours shall be if I can make it so,” said 
Miss Westlake to herself, “after I’m gone, — I 
couldn’t stand the noise — I’m dropping to pieces 
now.” 

“ I’ve had such a good day, after all,” said Electa 
brightly, “ thanks to your tripping in front of the 
post-office and Mr. Morris forgetting his tea, coffee, 
and sugar.” 

“So good that you don’t want another letter?” 
asked John, smiling, “you wouldn’t take another, 
if I should offer it to you.” 

“ I’ll go and look in all the nooks and corners,” 
she answered laughing. 

“ You’ve forgiven me now for looking in other 
people’s closets ? ” 

Electa laughed and colored uneasily. Miss West- 
lake’s hand was finding its way to her pocket. 
“Oh, you haven’t another! You can’t have an- 
other!” cried Electa, observing the motion and 


THE DOOR AJAR, 


253 


springing to her feet. “You wouldn’t tease me; 
I do want it so.” 

“Yes, here’s the last,” said Miss Westlake as 
Electa caught her hand with its white treasure. 

“ Oh, Cousin Jane ! ” 

“You mean grandma,” corrected John. 

“ Grandma,” said Electa. 

“ Positively the last,” said John. 

“ And it’s from Eobin, darling old Eobin ! Oh, 
how good she is to think of me ! ” 

“Four in one day! How many would be too 
many?” questioned Miss Westlake. 

“ I shall never know,” said Electa. “ I never had 
four in one mail before.” 

Eobin’s letter contained a lively description of 
her life in Washington: the places she visited, 
the people she met, the books she read. How far 
away Eobin’s world seemed to Electa sitting at the 
little table among books that belonged to the past, 
with the old-fashioned fire and tall candles, the 
sweet old lady and roughly dressed youth her only 
companions. Eobin’s world seemed full of dazzling 
lights and confusing noises, the voices of strangers 
and the rustle and bustle of coming and going. 

“I’m so sorry for you, poor, forlorn child,” she 
added in closing. “ Do my wonderful good times 
harm your soul ? There are so many good people 
out in the world; I used to think that to be out 
in the world one had to be worldly^ but I see that 
it isn’t a needs-be, at all. After the din of the 
tumult became a thing of course, and the inner 


254 


ELECTA, 


tumult subsided, I found that I was the same 
Robin that I am at home, and my own room is 
as hushed and quiet as my room at The Beehive. 
Two of the colored waiters seemed to feel drawn 
to Cousin Horace and opened their hearts to him, 
and listened so eagerly while he talked to them. 
‘There wasn’t room for Jesus in an inn once,’ 
Cousin Horace said. ‘ Do you find room for Him 
now ? ’ I don’t forget that, it helps me every day. 
And a young clerk, while standing in a vestibule 
with us to hail a car, said something that led to 
a conversation with Cousin Horace. He said that 
he had united with the Church, but had never 
gone to Communion, he felt too wicked. I think 
that he will go now, he can’t help it. And just 
now while sitting here writing in the cheeriest, 
handsomest parlor, I have been half listening to 
the conversation of two girls about as old as Nan 
and I. One of them is dressed in black velvet, 
her only ornament a diamond cross; her bright 
stockings and pretty slippers look so pretty as she 
raises her feet to rest them upon the fender. We 
have a coal fire in a grate, and it seems to draw 
us together. The other girl is so little and sweet 
and womanly that I long to speak to her. 

“The girl in velvet asked, ‘What is your idea 
of heaven ? ’ 

“ I looked up to listen and both smiled. Then 
they talked about prayer and ‘H. H. ’ and Charles 
Kingsley and ‘Tom Brown’ Hughes and George 
Macdonald. 


THE DOOR AJAR, 


255 


“ The velvet girl jumped up and said, ‘ I wish 
my papa would come,’ and I thought how glad 
and proud her papa must be. She is as pretty and 
sweet as Nan, and she has been out in the world 
while Nan has been in a country home. I think 
that she has let Jesus come into the inn. Suppose 
that I had gone to Cousin Jane’s and you had 
come with Cousin Jennie; I wonder if our lives 
would have been any different. We both chose, 
you know; if I had chosen Cousin Jane’s, you 
might have been chosen by Cousin Jennie. I am 
so glad of my choosing; I am getting brisk and 
wide-awake and ready for the next thing. I am 
glad that I can get ready without waiting to know 
what it is. Here comes a lady with diamond ear- 
rings, a diamond bar, and four diamond rings. I 
used to want a diamond ring, but now 1 don’t; 
I see too many. 

“ I hope that you will be glad of your choosing 
some day; but it must be hopeless and forlorn 
enough now. I’m not a bit homesick. I enjoy my 
pretty things and every body and every thing, and 
Cousin Jennie and Cousin Horace seem so glad to 
have me with them, so I know I help to make their 
good time. I’ll write often ; good-by, poor dear.” 

Forlorn! Yes, it was rather forlorn, she ac- 
knowledged to herself as she refolded the sheet; 
forlorn, but not hopeless. Eobin hoped for some- 
thing new and delightful with every new to-mor- 
row ; and her to-morrow, what was she hoping for 
or looking forward to ? Cousin Jane might give 


256 


ELECTA, 


her Patty’s jewels and she would choose how to 
give them away, and Mr. Eyle would certainly 
ca|l, and she would have a letter from Celia ! 
What else ? Household work ! It would be Mon- 
day. Monday was wash-day ; would Cousin Jane 
expect her to wash ? She had never washed or 
ironed any thing beside handkerchiefs and collars 
in her life ; she could not do it, she would be too 
tired. But she could not refuse ; oh, dear, she had 
not thought of that. Would Cousin Jane call this 
a visit and let her go home ? She was not strong 
enough to wash and iron even to earn a hundred 
dollars for Trude. This plan was seeming to be a 
failure ; she must think of something else that she 
could do. 

Forlorn for Electa, but not for the loving, intent 
eyes that were watching her; the drooping eyelids 
the grieved lips were telling Miss Westlake a story. 
It was hard for the child to come to her ; she was 
giving up every thing for the little in this lonely, 
old house. To-night it was a lonely house to 
Patty’s sister. 

“ Can’t you read your letters to me ? ” Miss 
Westlake asked wistfully; “I like to know about 
things away off.” 

“ Trude’s and Robin’s ! Would you like to hear 
both? It will seem as if they were talking to us.” 

Electa read aloud both letters, skipping now and 
then a sentence or a paragraph. 

“ Please read them again, and don’t skip,” pleaded 
Miss Westlake. 


THE DOOR AJAR. 


257 


“Do you want to hear how they pity me for 
being homesick?” laughed Electa. 

“Yes, every word.” 

Miss Westlake was beginning to understand the 
home and the companionship that Electa had left ; 
she was beginning to understand what it was for 
her to be shut up with herself 

“She shall have enough to make up,” she re- 
peated to herself Awaking in the night she said 
again and again half aloud, “She shall have enough I 
to make up.” 

It seemed very queer to John Gray to sleep in 
the chamber that he had admired that morning; 
his inheritance was bringing him some very pleas- 
ant things. 

All Monday morning Electa moved about the 
house, up stairs and down, with her letters in her 
pocket, little guessing of the effect they had had 
upon Cousin Jane. 

“ The child shall have enough to make up,” Miss 
Westlake said to herself many times that morning, 
as she watched the busy, brown figure flitting 
from one thing to another at her bidding and often- 
times divining her unspoken wish. It was a con- 
tinual wonder to the old lady that the child knew 
about so many things without being told. It was ^ 
so long since she had been associated with girls 
that she thought of Electa as seven instead of sev- 
enteen; in her estimation there may not have been 
very much difference between the two ages. 

“ I didn’t feel like washing this morning,” said 


258 


ELECTA, 


Miss Westlake, as she arose from the dinner- 
table. 

“ Do you wash ? Do you expect me to wash ? ” 
exclaimed Electa. 

“ Certainly I wash. I am not too old to be past 
labor.” 

“Can’t you hire somebody?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“John Gray will send somebody; won’t you let 
him, please? I don’t know how.” 

“ I don’t suppose that I can do his washing and 
yours, too. He will make work, I hadn’t thought 
of that. I don’t want a stranger in the house.” 

“ Send the washing and ironing out ! ” suggested 
Electa. “John will find somebody.” 

“That is a good idea,” replied Miss Westlake, 
thoughtfully; “ I can’t have any more people around. 
I feel so confused now that I can’t think, and when 
I go to speak, I can’t think of what to say. John 
Gray is coming to-night for good. I hope that you 
two won’t make any noise together.” 

A chill fell on Electa’s heart. What noise could 
they two make? Mustn’t they speak aloud? Must 
they whisper ? 

“Mr. Ryle is coming this afternoon,” she said, 
as hopefully as she could speak. 

“1 hope so. I shall send John for him if he 
doesn’t. I want to see him on business of great im- 
portance. I wish to consult him and ask his advice.” 

^i^Vail said once that his heart was crowded with 
things. N^^^s yours too 


THE DOOR AJAR. 


269 


“Yes, child,” she answered gravely. 

The sun was shining, that was something; it was 
more than something to Electa. She went to the 
window and stood in the sunshine. It might rain 
again some day; but she would not spoil her sun- 
shine by thinking of it now. 

“ Grandma! ” she began brightly. 

There came something sweeter than sunshine 
into Miss Westlake’s face. 

“ I want to go out and take a walk.” 

“ No ; you mustn’t. The ground is soaked through ; 
you would get a cough or a chill. You may walk 
out on the bricks and see Lily, if you want to.” 

“ I want to go outside the gates.” 

“There’ll be no need of your ever going out 
when John Gray comes. He’ll do all the errands.” 

“ But he can’t take a walk for me.” 

“You can take a walk next summer; I’m afraid 
something will happen to you unless I go with 
you to take care of you.” 

Electa laughed with tears in her eyes. “ Why, 
grandma, mamma lets Guy go out to play alone.” 

“ She has somebody else and I only have you.” 

“What may I do this afternoon, then?” 

“ I’ll get Patty’s things for you, and then I want 
you to help me get mother’s room ready for me to 
sleep in ; she died in the bedroom next to the room 
she used to sit in. Patty used to say she wanted to 
die there ; but she was taken sick in the night, and 
after that I couldn’t move her. Mother’s things 
are there just as she left them.” 


260 


ELECTA. 


Patty’s jewels were not many, but there was 
something for mamma and each of the girls. The 
watch she chose for Celia, a cameo pin for mam- 
ma, a solitaire diamond ring for Nan, and a cluster 
diamond ring for Mollie; remembering that Eobin 
was tired of diamonds, she selected for her a ring 
with a moss agate; there were pearl ear-rings for 
Trude, and a large, heavy gold pencil that she 
was undecided how to apportion. She had the 
beads and cross for herself; she could not give the 
pencil to one of the boys, for she had nothing for 
the others; papa had a pencil already; why not 
give the pencil to the other grandchild, John 
Gray? 

Miss Westlake looked pleased at the suggestion, 
and laid it away to present it to him herself It 
should be in token of what was afterward to come. 

The shutters of the down-stairs sleeping room 
were thrown open, the pale, November sunlight 
shone in, every thing was in order, there was no 
dust anywhere. How familiar and homelike that 
room became to Electa afterward. The chintz cur- 
tains, the worn carpet, the cane-seated chairs, the 
pink and white quilt, the leather bound Bible, be- 
came a part of her daily life. 

“I’ll sleep here to-night,” said Miss Westlake. 

“Alone?” 

“Yes, alone. You can go back to your own 
room, and John shall have Patty’s room. Now we 
are all fixed for good.” 

For good? Yes, it must be for good. Electa 


THE DOOR AJAR. 


261 


thought. “I shall have a letter to-night, and I 
shall see Mr. Eyle, and John Gray will be here. 
Oh, how many good things are happening to me.” 

In the joy of her heart Miss Westlake laughed 
aloud. If the child only knew all the good things 
that were happening to her. “You are the good 
thing that has happened to me,” she said; “my 
best happening for fifty years.” 

After that, how could Electa ever wish that she 
might go home ? 

“There are sixty-five acres of land that belong 
to this house,” Miss Westlake said after a moment. 

“ And will you let John Gray farm next spring ? 
Wouldn’t you love to see things growing? ” 

“I believe I would,” she answered slowly; “I 
almost believe I would. It will take me a long 
time after being so long buried to come out and 
live.” 

“Mr. Eyle will be here soon, perhaps,” said 
Electa; “may I brush your hair? It’s so pretty I 
love to touch it.” 

If any thing were to bring her back to life, was 
it not God’s love in her heart and the touch of 
young fingers about her? As she brushed her 
hair Electa sang softly. 

“Are you going to fix yourself up to see the 
minister ? ” 

The brown dress was rather shabby, but the 
blue merino must be kept for Sundays and holi- 
days, for the world outside the gate. She looked 
down upon her dress very seriously, there was a 


262 


ELECTA. 


yellowish spot on the front of the skirt made one 
day when she was making lemonade for papa, the 
trimming on the sleeves was frayed and a rent in 
one sleeve had been carefully darned. . She could 
not do any thing to make herself look pretty, 
unless it were to bathe her face anew and unbraid 
her hair and let it fail upon her shoulders in the 
little-girl fashion that Mrs. Ryle had liked. She 
thought of her ruffle box, but there were only six 
yards of ruffling; if that must last six months, she 
must save it for greater occasions- u' uld not 
afford a fresh ruffle in her neck to-day ; she had a 
silk handkerchief with a cream-colored centre and 
rose border, she would tie that about her neck — 
that would have to do. She half sighed and then 
laughed. It was very funny that all the “ dressing 
up ” she could do was to wash her face and comb 
her hair. 

“Be bright and sweet, and make the best of 
your dress,” mamma always said. 

“ What are you laughing at, child ? I hope that 
you haven’t any grown-up ideas in your head ! ” 

“No, grandma, not one. Celia and Mollie and 
Nan and Robin have all the grown-up ideas.” 

“ My mother was married at fifteen.” 

“ Trude’s age. Oh, how funny ! There couldn’t 
have been any little girls in old times.” 

“ What are little girls like now ? ” 

“Like me, only sweeter and brighter. I wish 
you could see all our little girls at home.” 

“ One is enough for me, dear.” 


THE DOOR AJAR. 


263 


Electa bent and impulsively kissed the soft, 
white head. 

“Nothing is real but God’s will. My life has 
been full of imaginings. The real part has been 
God’s thoughts. Child, my heart is crowded with 
things. I want Mr. Kyle to set my thoughts in 
array before me, and plan for me.” 

“ He knows how to do that.” 

“ I want to be alone a little while to think.” 

Electa went upstairs singing: “One more day’s 
work for Jesus.” 

“I want this day’s work to be for Him,” Miss 
Westlake said aloud. She had a habit of talking 
aloud. 

Electa thought to be “bright and sweet” was 
oftentimes the hardest work in the world ; to-day 
she was forcing herself to be both. She could not 
have a talk with Mr. Kyle, for Cousin Jane would 
keep him all to herself; she wished to ask him 
about providences. Perhaps he would not come 
again for a long while. All the long afternoon 
she watched for him, wrapping herself in a shawl 
and sitting on the carpet under the window in 
“ mother’s room,” with her elbows on the window- 
sill that she might look down the road towards 
Walnut Grove. 

“Nothing is real but God’s will,” Miss Westlake 
said aloud, sitting alone over the fire as night fell. 

Just now there was nothing real to Electa but 
the gathering twilight, nothing real but the dark- 
ness that was shutting down over her world and 


264 


ELECTA, 


shutting out the friend that had not come. Bat 
the darkness could not keep her letter from com- 
ing. John Gray would surely come, if he could 
make satisfactory arrangements with Mr. Morris; 
even if he could not, he would come to bring her 
letter. But perhaps no one had written to her ! 
The long evening and then the night upstairs 
alone. Oh, if the sun would never set! If it 
would only never be dark! Her face had grown 
pale, her fingers had stiffened with cold, she was 
chilled from head to foot, her throat was sore and 
her head ached. If she were ill, would Celia 
come ? Had she not been very brave, a wave of 
homesickness would have overwhelmed her. It 
grew too dark to distinguish any thing; there was 
not any thing that looked like a human being far 
or near; nothing but the lights that flashed out in 
kitchen windows where supper was being prepared 
for fathers and mothers, big brothers and sisters, 
and little children; where supper-tables with more 
than two plates and two cups and saucers were 
being set. She arose stiffened with cold, too weary 
to cry, desolate and sick at heart. As she crossed 
the hall the murmur of voices reached her. Mr. 
Eyle had come, or John Gray. She hastily opened 
the door of the sitting-room, the voices were in the 
kitchen. 

Cousin Jane was saying — no she could not be 
saying such a thing — “ I want to give the house 
and land, sixty-five acres, and one thousand dollars 
to her, to do just as she likes with; but I don’t 


THE DOOR AJAR, 


265 


want her to know — I want her to love me for 
myself.” 

Poor Electa ! A flush of surprise and gladness, 
then a dropping of the head in bitterness of spirit. 

“The child does love me; she kissed my old 
head to-day, that kiss and those letters — ” 

Cousin Jane was weeping. 

Very softly and slowly she attempted to close 
the door, but she could not avoid hearing: “I 
couldn’t enjoy her love if I thought she knew.” 

A moment she stood as if paralyzed. What 
could she do ? Rush in and shriek out that she 
knew it all and beg her to take it back? 

“Oh, mamma! Oh, Celia!” she groaned aloud; 
“ oh, somebody come and tell me what to do.” 

But did Cousin Jane mean her? Did she say 
“ Lecty ? ” Did she say “ she ” or “ her ” ? Perhaps 
it was “he” and “him,” and she might have meant 
John Gray ? But no one beside herself had kissed 
her hair that day. What had Cousin Jane said? 
What had she overheard? The house and land 
and a thousand dollars for somebody to do as she 
liked with, and that somebody mustn’t know; she 
must love Cousin Jane for herself and not for what 
she would give her. It would break Cousin Jane’s 
heart if she knew that she knew; she would not, 
she could not, be happy in love and caresses and 
kindnesses that she had bought with house and 
land and money. She dared not tell her, she dared 
not keep it to herself; how could she be natural 
and free with her ever again ? Would she brush 


266 


ELECTA. 


her hair for money ? Kiss her good-night for 
money? Eead to her and sing to her for house 
and land? She could not lift her eyes to her; her 
secret would reveal itself a dozen times a day in 
her constrained manner and hard-earned services. 
What she was loving to do for love’s sake would 
be intolerable if done for reward. No more her 
servant for Jesus’ sake; she would be her servant 
for a house and a thousand dollars and sixty -five 
acres of land. “ I wanted to do it for Jesus,” she 
sobbed. 

A step entering the sitting-room startled her 
into motion ; she fied upstairs, away from the faces 
she dreaded, cowering in the darkness of her cham- 
ber, afraid and ashamed, not knowing what to do, 
and not daring to do the only thing that she felt 
it right to do. 

“She would say I listened,” she said chokingly; 
“ she would never believe in me again. Oh, why 
did I have to open that door just that minute ? ” 

“Lecty! Lecty!” called the quavering voice at 
the foot of the stairs. There was a joyful thrill in 
the voice and a tone of tenderness that wrung the 
girl’s heart. Cousin Jane felt that she owned her 
now; she had the right to give, but, oh, what 
right had she to take ? 

“ I do love her more than ever,” she thought, 
straightening herself, “but I shan’t dare to show 
it. I shall feel as if she knew J knew.” 

“ Lecty ! Lecty ! Where are you, child ? ” 

“Yes’m, in two minutes,” she answered clearly. 


THE DOOR AJAR, 


267 


She would have been glad if she might have made 
the two minutes two hours. Miss Westlake met 
her on the stairs, they passed each other in silence. 

“Mr. Kyle is there,” said Miss Westlake from 
the top of the stairs; “but he can’t stay long.” 

A very serious face greeted him; she had for- 
gotten that she could not “dress up” to see him. 
Had she remembered it she would have wondered 
how she could be childish enough to care. She 
was not a little girl now, she was growing old. 

“The child is homesick,” he thought, “and no 
wonder.” 

“ Has the time seemed long to you ? ” he asked, 
keeping her hand in his as they both stood before 
the fire. 

“ Oh, so long ! When did you bring me ? Only 
Friday night.” 

“You haven’t heard from home?” 

“From home? from the boys and Robin and 
Trude, and oh, a letter from Celia ! I found it in 
my trunk. Celia never forgets.” 

Miss Westlake had gone up to Patty’s chamber; 
kneeling there alone in the cold, with her hands 
tightly clasped, she was crying out with tears: “0, 
Master of my house, may Thy will be in my will ; 
make my will for me and give me the hearts of 
these children. I am alone down here but for 
them. My generation has passed away.” 

Mr. Ryle seated himself in Miss Westlake’s 
rocker; Electa stood beside him troubled and grave. 

“ Did youexpect me Saturday?” 


268 


ELECTA, 


“Yes, sir.” 

“ I was detained.” 

“ I knew that. I watched for you all this after- 
noon; I did not see you come.” 

“I did not come through Walnut Grove; I have 
been here an hour, listening to Miss Westlake and 
talking to her.” 

“Would you like to — but you don’t care, — 
would you like to know about my letters ? ” 

“ I do care, I care very much.” 

“Celia’s was the best. Oh, if she were only 
here now.” 

“Is something troubling you? Can’t you tell 
me, or my mother ? ” 

“No, not yet; I can’t tell any body yet; it would 
hurt somebody if I should tell. It would be hard 
to tell, but I covJd if it were not for hurting Cousin 
Jane.” 

“ My mother is quite ill ; she fell down three 
steps this morning, jarring herself considerably; 
Mercy was busy and did not find her for an hour, 
and I was out ; she is very quiet, but I fear that she 
is injured more than she confesses.” 

“ Does she suffer much ? Oh, I am so sorry ! ” 

“I think she does; I would not have, left her, 
but I felt that you might need me, and I knew 
nothing but that Miss Patty was buried.” 

“I thank you very much; don’t stay another 
minute, she will miss you; it hasn’t killed me yet, 
and I shall have another letter from Celia to-night. 
She won’t mind if I read you a little of her letter; 


THE DOOR AJAR. 


269 


oh, I know what I will do ! I will give you all 
three letters — hers and Eobin’s and Trude’s — ^to read 
to your mother. I want to do something for her 
and that’s all I can do. Cousin Jane will not like 
to stay alone; I wish I could go to her; I think 
she liked to have me near her.*' 

Electa spoke eagerly and tremulously. 

“ I am sure of it. As soon as Miss Westlake can 
spare you I’ll come for you, and you shall have a 
day and a night with mother. Your mother has 
sent three girls out from the home nest, I wonder 
if she wouldn’t send another. My mother needs 
one of them.” 

“ Nan or Mollie or Celia ! Wouldn’t it be love- 
ly? Wouldn’t it be too good? If Celia would 
come I’d never be troubled any more. Did I tell 
you that John Gray and I are to call Cousin Jane 
grandma ? She’s the loveliest grandmother out of 
a book.” 

“We had a long talk about John Gray. This 
dear old lady is his inheritance.” 

Electa colored painfully ; she stammered attempt- 
ing to speak. “ I don’t want her house and land 
to be my inheritance,” she tried to say, “ I want 
her to know I love her because she is lovely.” But 
her words were only a confused sound ; Mr. Eyle 
hastened to interrupt her : “ As soon as my mother 
is better I shall have business that will take me 
within twenty miles of The Beehive; would you 
like to send any thing ? ” 

“Are you going there? Oh, I wish, — but no, I 


270 


ELECTA. 


don’t want to go, but — if Cousin — grandma wants 
to send me, you will take me ! ” 

“Yes, I’ll take you.” 

“Are you going soon ? ” 

“ As soon as I may leave home.” 

“ I have something to send to them all, if I don’t 
go — I may go — I don’t know. Is it a providence 
that you are moved to go ? ” she asked seriously. 

“ I hope so,” he answered, turning to meet her 
eyes and smile; “and not to me only.” 

“Then — are you — ” she hesitated. “ I beg your 
pardon.” 

“You mean am I going to be married ? ” he said. 

“ I did mean that.” 

“ Sometime, I hope.” 

“ Has your mother seen her ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Is every thing a providence ? ” she asked after 
a moment. 

“ What is a providence ? Tell me.” 

“Something provided, isn’t it? ” she said quickly. 

“Just that; every thing that God provides is 
His providence ; every thing that He takes out of 
His great provision-house and gives to you; every 
thing that He has laid up for you, stored for you, 
every thought He moves you to think, every step 
He urges you to take, every ill He prevents, every 
good thing He gives, all come of His providence. 
He gives to you and it is in your hand to make of 
it what you will. You can turn it to good or evil 
as you choose. The steps of a good man are or- 


THE DOOR AJAR. 


271 


dered of the Lord, even his steps across the room ; 
all his steps in life ; his steps backward as well as 
his steps forward.” 

A startled look grew into Electa’s eyes. He had 
ordered her steps, then, and Cousin Jane’s words, 
that they might be brought together; the footsteps 
meeting the words and the words the footsteps. 

“ All the secret providences, too ? The things 
that nobody knows but you ? ” 

“The things that nobody knows but you are 
the things that make life significant; the things 
that nobody knows are the things that make the 
difference between your life and another life. Is 
this you ? a girl in a brown dress with long hair 
and a serious face standing in the dim light in an 
old-fashioned room, all her life just now to live 
alone with an old lady and wait upon her — a dull, 
uneventful life, morning, noon, and night, morn- 
ing, noon, and night, as the days go on, and that’s 
all! Is that all?” 

“No, that is only the outside, and the outside is 
almost nothing.” 

“Your secret things are the springs of your life, 
the secrets that you and God have together.” 

Then she was not bearing it alone, for God knew 
about it, too. The fiash of light and fiush of color 
were her only reply. 

“The reward is open, that may be revealed 
while the secret is kept.” 

“ But it isn’t always reward. Isn’t it some- 
times punishment ? ” 


272 


ELECTA. 


“It is reward if we obey; it is sore punishment 
if we disobey.” 

“ How can we obey if we don’t know what is 
right to do ? ” 

“ I think that we can always see that one thing 
is more right than another; it is more right to 
speak, or more right to keep silence; more right 
to give, or more right to refrain from giving; do 
all you know until you know more. We all know 
something. God means every providence to be a 
blessing; we can by obedience keep it a blessing 
or by disobedience turn it to our own hurt. Every 
providence is a trial to see if we will do God’s will 
or not. God is able to take care of His own prov- 
idences; all we have to do is to obey. Keep your 
eyes open and you will see God’s hand in every 
happening, your heart open and you will feel His 
love in every happening. Not one hair falls out 
of your head without Him.” 

A long light hair had fallen and lay upon her 
shoulder; he took it into his hand and twined it 
about his finger. 

“You were not conscious of this, but He knew 
it; and if He know and care about this, doesn’t He 
know and care about, plan and provide for, every 
perplexity and trial? If you were troubled while 
this hair was falling, did He know about the hair 
and not about the trouble ? This hair is the least 
thing about you; was its weight any thing? And 
if He know this, how much more does He know 
the greater things, the weights, the burdens ? The 


THE DOOR AJAR. 


278 


hairs of your head are many, but not too many for 
Him to count ; even if your perplexities be as many, 
He can, and does, count them, too. They are not 
too many for Him, not too little; isn’t the thing 
that is troubling you now more to you and to Him 
than this hair of your head? Shall I give you 
something to remember ? ‘ If any man lack wis- 

dom, let him ask of God.’ ” 

“That is what I lack now — wisdom.” 

“ If you lack any longer, it is your own fault.” 

“Yes, I see that,” she said slowly. 

“ I can look back in my own life and see link 
after link in His chain of providence, such little 
things to link together such great things; if I had 
not sought His will and obeyed, this or that would 
not have come to pass, and because of this and 
that, precious blessings have come to me. I lost 
the train and decided to stay another day, and 
that is how your father happened to meet me and 
ask me to spend that evening at The Beehive; and, 
after seeing you all once, how could I forbear stay- 
ing another day that I might see you all again ? 
And one reason that you are here is because your 
father trusted me to have the oversight of you; 
notice how our lives are interlinked; and John Gray 
is here because of you and me. I lost that train 
because I chose to call upon a stranger who was 
ill among strangers. If our choosings or refusings 
are that we may do God’s will, be sure that, what- 
ever the loss or difficulty. He will cause all to work 
together for good, even our mistakes.” 


274 


ELECTA. 


“Will He bring good out of the mistakes?” 
Electa asked hurriedly. 

“Assuredly; we shall suffer loss through them, 
and others may suffer loss also, but good will be 
worked out through all, to ourselves and to others. 
We may not, we can not live isolated lives; my 
providence is your providence, your providence is 
my providence. In His providences God speaks to 
us about Himself, to teach us about ourselves, and, 
oh, how certainly, to teach us for others. Every 
choice you make blesses another or hurts another; 
the choice some other makes touches your life.” 

“That is true,” said Electa sadly, thinking of Miss 
Westlake’s choosing secrecy about the will. 

“That makes life very hard work,” she added. 

“ It makes life very blessed work,” returned Mr. 
Kyle. “Just think; every time you choose to do 
God’s will you are a blessing to somebody. The 
world is better, dear child, because you, little un- 
known maiden, have chosen to serve the Lord. 
God needs you to bless others with. Don’t you 
know Christ said: ‘For their sakes I sanctify My- 
self’? For their sakes, for the sake of every one 
whose life touches yours, or ever will touch it, be 
brave and true and faithful and unselfish and wise.” 

The sympathy of the tone was almost too much 
for her self-restraint; she turned from him and 
looked towards the window out into the darkness. 
The mystery of all her future was with God ; it was 
a glad mystery since God’s providence was her 
inheritance. How relieved she would have been 


/ 

THE DOOR AJAR, 


275 


had she known that Mr. Eyle had heard the quick 
opening and the cautious closing of the door, that 
he had even caught a glimpse of her face in that 
one startled glance, that he had divined the cause 
of her perplexity, and was wondering what she 
would think it right to do about it. If she might 
have poured her burden out in words half its weight 
would have been lifted. It was pressing down 
upon her, choking her. 

“ Electa.” 

Slowly she turned and listened. 

“ I have something good to tell you; Miss West- 
lake asked me to tell you ; she knew that you could 
be a secret-keeper.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Electa, her heart giving a great 
leap. Had she decided that she might know, that 
it would not hinder her enjoyment of her to know 
that she. Electa, knew that she had given house and 
land and money for her presence and her love ? 

“No one is to know it.” 

“Yes, sir; I won’t tell even Celia,” she said, try- 
ing to speak quietly. 

“ I am to come here some day this week with a 
lawyer that she may mak6 her will; she has con- 
siderably more money than I supposed; it is quite 
a little fortune ; I have been looking over her bank- 
books. Years ago her sister willed all her property 
to her. She intends to adopt John Gray, to give 
him a liberal education ; he is to choose any pro- 
fession that he wishes to, and then he may travel 
for a year before he settles down to work ; he is to 


276 


ELECTA. 


have an income for five years after he has settled 
himself to his work, that he may enjoy his work, 
and not feel straitened; she said, after that, two 
thirds of the income is to be given to the Old 
Lady’s Home in Swanzey, the one third he is to 
retain niitil his death, and then, not the interest, 
but the principal is to be given to any one he may 
designate.” 

“ I’m very glad for John Gray,” she said won- 
dering if that were all the good news. “ I hope he 
won’t know until he loves her dearly for her own 
sake, and then she won’t have to be disappointed 
about that. I don’t like to have her disappointed.” 

“ He will not go away to school until next fall, 
probably; she wants to keep him with her for 
a while. What a fine thing it is for the boy ! ” 

“And for her,” said Electa; “she will have him 
if I go, so I shan’t mind so much.” 

“She gives for love’s sake, she wishes him to 
take for love’s sake.” 

Was Mr. Eyle thinking it strange that she did 
not ask if he would have the house and land, also? 
Might she asked unconcernedly : “ Who will have 
the house ? ” But that would involve deceit ; she 
would be acting as though she did not know, 
when she did know; but did she certainly know? 
She stood straight and still, for one moment her 
burden seemed greater than she could bear. Mr. 
Eyle could feel her repressed eagerness, her anx- 
iety to speak, her anxiety not to speak. Last 
Monday night she was a little girl at home, sing- 


THE DOOR AJAR, 


277 


ing and telling stories to Guy and Vail in the twi- 
light: to-night she was so far away from home 
growing old. 

“ He does love her now,” she said, bringing her- 
self back from the twilight at home, from the pres- 
sure of Guy’s arms about her neck and from the 
sound of Vail’s voice; “he is to do the errands, feed 
Lily, and make the fires this winter for his board 
and six dollars a month; he doesn’t want to take 
the money, but Cous — grandma insisted, and said 
that business was business ; I am to help her make 
his shirts, and he is to have a handsome suit for 
Christmas, overcoat and boots and all; I wonder 
when it all began.” 

“It began with her years ago, when she began 
longing for a child to love; it may have been that 
the child was given to his mother in pain and sor- 
row and great weariness of heart, and to her in 
answer to her longing, which was prayer, he is 
given in great joy; with John, his inheritance be- 
gan that dark night that father and mother forsook 
him and left him out in the world ; with you — ” 

“ The interlinking began when I began to want 
so to do something for somebody; I was willing 
to do any thing and every thing, as I do do for 
grandma. When did it begin with you, Mr. 
Eyle?” 

“The moment that I decided to lose the train 
that I might visit that sick stranger; I trust that 
a blessing will come to my mother through that.” 

Electa dared not ask what the blessing was; his 


278 


ELECTA, 


next words were spoken to himself: “I want my 
my mother to see my wife before she dies.” 

“ Perhaps John Gray will be too independent to 
be adopted,” suggested Electa. 

“ He will be spending her money for her in the 
way that pleases her best; he can not refuse out 
of sheer self-will and pride this money, this op- 
portunity that God gives him ; I think he is will- 
ing for God to use him in any way.” 

Would she be refusing God’s good gift if she 
should confess that she overheard? It never oc- 
curred to her to believe that Miss Westlake Avould 
think her blameless; her one fear was that she 
would treat her as an eaves-dropper, and never 
trust her again. The brands on the hearth fell 
apart, the room was almost dark; Electa stood 
bending forward with both hands upon the arm of 
Mr. Pyle’s chair, her hair falling upon his shoulder. 

“ You are coming this week ? ” she said. 

“Thursday afternoon, if I am not prevented.” 

“ I shall have till Thursday then,” she said aloud, 
startling herself at her own utterance. 

“My mother will be expecting me,” Mr. Pyle 
said rising. 

“Oh, I wish I was going with you,” she cried; 
“ I would rather stay with your mother.” 

“ I wish you were for her sake; do you wish very 
much to return ? Miss Westlake will be very com- 
fortable with John Gray; you are not compelled to 
stay; you may have your choice.” 

“I know it; I do want to go home; I am not 


THE DOOR AJAR, 


279 


very brave. But Cousin Jane needs me — no,’* 
catching her breath quickly, “ I will stay.” 

“My mother will thank you much for the 
pleasure of the letters; she feels quite at home at 
The Beehive.” 

The letters were in her pocket, it was a little 
hard to let them go. Celia’s was considerably 
crumpled. 

“ This is Celia’s,” she said, laying it in his hand. 
“ I have read it to pieces.” 

Not a flush, but a slight change of color, a leap- 
ing of something into his eyes betokened deep 
feeling as the letter touched his hand ; it was too 
dark for Electa to see his face distinctly ; she would 
have wondered and been puzzled had she seen it. 

“ Excuse me ; I forgot to light the candles ; don’t 
go away in the dark.” 

She lighted a candle with the feeling that she 
must look upon his face before he went away, his 
was the face of a friend, and there were so few 
friends near her. As the slow candle-light fell 
upon his face she saw the something new in his 
eyes. He colored as her eyes met his and then 
laughed. 

“ Good-night, little sister,” he said. 

“ Good-night, big brother,” she returned. 

She had no time to be homesick, wood must be 
brought in for the evening fire, the tea-kettle put 
on, and the tea-table set. And she had until 
Thursday to decide. She set the table for three, 
she could not bring herself to think that she might 


280 


ELECTA. 


be disappointed about John Gray coming; he had 
promised to bring all his books, and they were to 
study together. He was to be her teacher. 

Coming down-stairs from the chilliness and dark- 
ness upstairs, Miss Westlake opened the door into 
warmth and brightness, a blaze upon the hearth, 
the pretty tea-table, the busy hand-maiden, and 
the low, sweet music of a hymn. 

“ It’s all too good for me. Lord,” she said in her 
heart; “but don’t take it away.” 

“Aren’t you cold, grandma, staying upstairs so 
long?” cried the little hand-maiden, turning from 
the contemplation of the tea-table. “John Gray 
is coming and we’ll study and sing and read to 
you and have a lovely evening. And you’ll sleep 
in that cosey room and be as comfortable as a 
queen.” 

“With only two subjects in my kingdom. If 
my heart didn’t ache so with missing poor Patty, I 
should be the happiest old woman in the world. 
I miss her at every turn and with every breath. I 
miss doing for her. I must have somebody to do 
for.” 

“ She doesn’t want to come back,” said Electa, 
setting a candlestick in the centre of the table, 
and wishing that she had a vase of flowers to 
stand there instead. 

“No, no, no; but I would like her to see how 
changed and pleasant it is here to-night.” 

“ I wonder if she is wishing that you were up 
there to see how pleasant it is up there to-night” 


THE DOOR AJAR. 


281 


“ But she can’t miss me, for she has the Lord,” 
said Miss Westlake. 

“ Don’t we have Him down here, too ? ” asked 
Electa shyly. Electa could not talk about the Lord 
as Kobin and Celia could. 

Miss Westlake made no answer, but for days and 
days the thought filled her heart and mind. How 
could she for one instant have forgotten that He 
was down here, too ? 

“ Shall we wait for John Gray ? ” asked Electa. 

“Yes, we’ll wait a while.” 

The tea-kettle was singing in the kitchen, the 
flames were curling in and out among the round 
sticks of wood upon the hearth. So sensitive was 
she to every motion of life that the singing of the 
tea-kettle helped her to bear the burden of her 
secret ; while the fire burned so brightly it did not 
seem as if Cousin Jane could be displeased with her 
and send her away. 

“There he is ! ” cried Miss Westlake as the sound 
of whistling burst out into the night outside : “ how 
queer it does seem to have a boy about. I had a 
brother who used to Avhistle sixty years ago. I 
almost don’t know whether it is then or now.” 

“ I know it is now,” said Electa rising to take 
the candle out to the shed. “And he whistles 
because he has a letter for me. That is to be our 
sign all winter.” 

The letter was from Celia, a sheet of foolscap well 
filled ; after Electa had eagerly run through it she 
looked up to meet Miss Westlake’s wistful eyes. 


- 282 


ELECTA. 


“You shall hear it, grandma, it is full of home.” 

J ohn Gray stayed two hours with them ; he read 
aloud for an hour, and then the children sang to- 
gether the old church hymns. 

“ Not one moment for study,” sighed Electa as 
the clock struck nine. 

John Gray would not be allowed to leave Mr. 
Morris until the last day of December; he promised 
to spend the intervening Sabbaths with them, and 
to come every evening and stay until the clock 
struck nine. 

They felt very much alone after he bade them 
good-night, and Electa bolted the door of the shed. 

“I think I’ll go to bed, my dear,” said Miss 
Westlake, taking a candle. 

Electa longed to kiss her good-night; it would 
be like home to kiss some one good-night, but her 
secret came between them and instead she said, 
“ Good-night, grandma, pleasant dreams.” 

“My dreams are coming true,” returned Miss 
Westlake; “ I don’t need to dream any more.” 

Electa snuffed the candle when she was left 
alone and, crouching over the fire for the sake of 
its companionship, opened her letter to read it 
again. 

Deeply absorbed in it, suddenly she started vio- 
lently, springing to her feet; was that a tap on the 
window? But, no, there was not a sound; had 
she fallen asleep over her letter, or was it one of 
the home noises that she heard ? 

The shutters were closed, the curtains dropped. 


THE DOOR AJAR. 


283 


every outside door was locked or barred ; how silly 
she was to imagine things! She would rather 
sleep on the sofa in this room than go upstairs to 
sleep alone, but grandma might not like it; she 
had taken it for granted that she was willing to 
sleep upstairs alone. She would not be afraid to 
sleep alone up in heaven, why should she be 
afraid down here when the Lord was down here as 
really as up there ? Assuring and reassuring 
herself that she did not mind it at all, she took 
her candle and went upstairs; there was a move- 
ment within Miss Westlake’s room as she paused 
for one hesitating instant at her door. 

She kept Celia’s letter in her hand while she 
was undressing and kept it in her hand as she lay 
down to sleep, “ My dear little sister,” it seemed 
to be saying over and over again. She would be 
brave and good, she would confess about the will, 
she would not care if she did not find time to 
study with John Gray, she would — she would — 

Had she been asleep? Was that that noise 
again ? A door had certainly been shut and that 
was the sound of a stealthy step upon the stairs ; it 
was coming nearer and nearer — it was stopping at 
her door — her door was opening — some one was 
breathing near her; she dared not stir or shriek — 
she covered her head with the blanket, and thought 
that her heart stopped beating. A hand was on 
the bed-clothes, it was drawing the blanket away 
from her head. 

“Lecty,” whispered Miss Westlake. 


284 


ELECTA. 


With a great leap her heart began to beat again ; 
she gasped, she could not catch her breath to speak. 

“ I thought you might like me to sleep with 
you; I was going to call you to come down, but 
was afraid of frightening you. Have you been 
asleep ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Electa, drawing a long 
breath. 

“I’m glad I didn’t startle you; I knocked my 
candlestick off the table while I was undressing; 
noises sound so loud in this house.” 

With the reaction came a burst of tears; Celia’s 
letter was very wet. 

“Nobody is here but me,” she sobbed, as Miss 
Westlake lay calmly asleep beside her; “all the 
others are having a good time.” 


XII. 

UNTIL THUKSDAY. 

“I have until Thursday,” she said to herself 
Tuesday morning. “I have until Thursday,” she 
said to herself Tuesday evening. “ I have until to- 
morrow,” she said many times during Wednesday. 

The clock struck nine Wednesday evening. 
John Gray dropped “ Southern Africa ” in the mid- 
dle of a sentence. He had been reading aloud for 
an hour; Miss Westlake had listened with her eyes 
upon his face and her hands folded in her lap. 
The first hour of the evening had been given to 
the recital of hymns; Electa and John had sat at 
the table with the hymn book open between them ; 
in a sweet, drawling monotonous tone Miss West- 
lake had repeated many hymns while they gravely 
followed the lines, turning leaf after leaf with no 
evidence of impatience. As they closed the hymn 
book she said, “ Now you sing to me.” 

“What shall we sing?” asked Electa. 

“Any thing, everything,” 

When Electa laughingly declared that she had 
sung every thing she had ever heard of. Miss 


286 


ELECTA, 


Westlake exclaimed in a wide-awake tone, “Now 
we’ll have ‘ Southern Africa.’ ” 

Electa watched the clock during the whole hour of 
the reading, peeping now and then into the Latin 
Grammar, and Mental Philosophy, and sketching 
John’s head and the Franklin on a slip of paper 
that she had found in his atlas. 

“ The clock struck nine. The tempting pile of 
books was untouched; the first lesson in short- 
hand and Latin was not even begun. 

“I must go, grandma,” said John; “I’ll come 
again to-morrow night.” 

With a candlestick in her hand Electa followed 
him into the woodshed. 

“John,” she began. 

“Well,” he assented after a long pause, “can’t 
you think of the rest of it ? ” 

“ I can think of it,” stooping to pick up a chip 
and then tossing it away; “but I don’t know how 
to put it into words.” 

“That is something new for you.” 

“ It is altogether something new to me; I never 
had a secret before.” 

“ Happy girl.” 

“Don’t laugh at me,” she cried earnestly, trouble 
gathering in her eyes; “suppose you knew some- 
thing — you didn’t want to know it, but you did; 
the knowledge was thrust upon you — and it con- 
cerned somebody that you loved and you could 
not decide whether to tell or not, what would you 
do?” 


UNTIL THURSDAY, 


287 


“I wouldn’t do any thing until I knew what 
to do.” 

“ But suppose you had to do something to pre- 
vent something ? ” she said anxiously. 

“Then I’d wait and consider until I could de- 
cide. I’d consider whether the something ought 
to be prevented or not.” 

“But suppose you did consider and couldn’t 
decide ? ” 

“ Then I’d consider again.” 

“ But I must decide before a certain time or the 
thing will be done.” 

“ How do you know it will be done ? ” he asked 
quickly. 

“ It will be unless some great thing happens to 
prevent.” 

“ Do you hold the happening in your hand ? It 
doesn’t look strong enough to hold much of a 
happening/’ he said, looking at the slight hand 
that grasped the candlestick 

“What I do may prevent something; it will cer- 
tainly take the sweetness out of something; some- 
body will be disappointed if I tell, and yet I must 
tell or I’ll be deceitful ; I can’t be deceitful, I can’t 
look into the eyes that I’m keeping a secret from 
— ^it isn’t my secret either ; it is the person’s whom 
I am deceiving.” 

“You can help being deceitful, but you can’t 
help the disappointment; the disappointment isn’t 
in your hand that I can see; there is nothing in 
your hand but whether you will do right or do 


288 


ELECTA. 


wrong. What happens next you have nothing to 
do with. Does that simplify it ? ” 

“Yes." 

“ Will it make a disappointment for you ? " 

“Yes, — I think it will; it will take something 
away from me that I want; the more I think of it 
the more I want it. I may go home ; but you are so 
kind to grandma that she will not miss me much.” 

“I don’t want you to' go home; I shall not like 
it so well here without you.” 

“I do not understand any thing but that I must 
do right; I can’t be happy till I do it — it will be 
about the hardest thing I ever did. I can’t feel 
near to people as you do, — even grandma, some- 
times, is like a stranger to me. Good-night.” 

“ Good-night,” he said, lingering with his hand 
upon the wooden bolt of the door. “ I wish I could 
keep it from being so hard. Tell me and let me 
do it for you.” 

“ I would, but it isn’t my secret,” she said. 

“ I don’t want you to lose something you want.” 

“ I don’t want to give it up ; if I do give it up, I 
can not do the work in the world that I want to 
do, and I want to have a calling, to he called as 
well as you.” 

“Perhaps you are imagining it all; I mean im- 
agining that you ought to tell. I see that you are 
all twisted up and mixed up.” 

“That’s what troubles me, — suppose it doesn’t 
concern me at all, but somebody else; I am so 
mixed up. But if it isn’t I, who is it ? ” 


UNTIL THURSDAY, 


289 


“Ob, you goosie, goosie, goosie,” laughed John 
Gray. ^ 

“My courage is oozing all out at my finger-tips; 
when you come again it will be all over.” 

John opened the door and looked out. The wind 
blew the snow directly into their faces. 

“ Whew ! a snow-storm ! ” he exclaimed. 

“Then you can stay all night,” she said joyfully. 

“No, I can’t. It may be worse in the morning, 
and I must be there early in the morning. I know 
what these long storms are. Good-night and do 
untwist yourself” 

Electa was half asleep when Miss Westlake 
aroused her by saying: “I think John Gray likes 
me.” 

“I know he does,” Electa replied emphatically. 

“And not for any selfish reason, not for what 
he can get out of me.” 

“He wouldn’t be so mean,” returned Electa 
indignantly. 

“Perhaps I am peculiar, but my heart would 
turn very hard against any body who pretended 
to like me for what they could get out of me.” 

“Do you wish that you were a poor old woman 
then, with nothing but love to give ? ” 

“I should be less suspicious, maybe.” 

Might she confess now? But Miss Westlake’s 
voice had grown hard and sharp. It would be 
easier to do in the dark, when she could not see 
her face grow cold and stern, and to-morrow night 
it would bo too late. She had not known her a 


290 


ELECTA, 


week ; oh, if she might wait until she was not at 
all strange to her ! If Celia could come and help 
her through ! If she might tell Mr. Ryle and beg 
him to confess it for her! She would have to go 
home and tell her story; she would have to go 
home without the hundred dollars for Trude. 

“But John Gray don’t know,” said the old voice 
eagerly and tremulously. 

“ How could he know I ” said Electa, her own 
voice trembling. 

“He couldn’t overhear, nobody could tell him, 
— it will spoil it all if he knows.” 

“ Don’t be troubled,” comforted Electa tenderly; 
“I know you will not be disappointed in this; I 
want you to enjoy it through and through.” 

“I can’t if there’s a kink in it.” 

It was long before Electa could sleep ; she formed 
plan after plan ; at first she decided to ask Mr. Ryle 
to take her home with him, she would write to 
Cousin Jane and await her reply at the parsonage. 
She would come back if Cousin Jane urged it; but 
if not, send for her trunk and go home; she had 
been out in the world, how glad she would be to 
fly back to the dear home nest 1 Then she decided 
that such a running away would appear cowardly; 
she had not done any wrong thing, why not stay 
and be brave ? Mr. Ryle might confess it for her, 
and she would stand at his side, keeping hold of 
his hand ; but how childish that was ! She would 
confess herself, she would say: “Last Monday 
afternoon — No, she would begin: “I am so 


UNTIL THURSDAY, 


291 


sorry, I don't want yon to be disappointed — ” But 
suppose Cousin Jane should interrupt her with: 
“You are taking a great deal for granted! So 
you expect something for taking care of me ? ” But 
she did kiss her hair that day ? No one else did 
that. But she spoke about letters. What letters ? 
Perhaps some one had written to her and helped 
her; it might have happened before she came. Of 
course Cousin Jane had not meant herself at all. 
How she was twisted up! But that kiss! Was 
that kiss one of the providences to help her 
through ? It was a little thing, but so were the 
hairs of her head. She did not wish this time for 
a shining light to help her through, she did not 
even think of opening the Bible for a sign, she 
knew that she might ask for wisdom and that she 
must do the thing that seemed the nearest right. 

“ Thursday ! Thursday ! ” was knocking at her 
brain before she was awake Thursday morning. 
She opened her eyes upon the dull, misty dawn 
and closed them again to ponder and pray. To- 
day she must decide. The idea that perhaps Miss 
Westlake had not been alluding to herself had 
so seized and possessed her that she was filled with 
terror at the thought of confessing that she had 
listened; when she first began to think of it, the 
thought was “overheard,” now in her bewilder- 
® ment and self-accusing, it had shaped itself into 
the repulsive form, “listened”; at first she intended 
to “acknowledge,” now, she was forcing herself to 
“ confess.” Yes, she had certainly listened, for she 


292 


ELECTA. 


might have closed the door more quickly, or she 
might have fled from the voice without waiting to 
shut the door. Thoroughly confused and wearied 
she lay half awake and half asleep. 

“ Ask Mr. Ryle if it were you, and then you can 
decide what to do.” 

Was the voice inside of herself or outside of her- 
self? Was the suggestion in answer to her plead- 
ing for wisdom ? When God spoke by His Spirit 
did He utter such commonplace, every-day words 
as these? He spoke in Samuel’s ear once and 
they were words as easy to be understood, as 
plain to follow as these words ! These words were 
not Bible words, they were not solemn and grave; 
they were not prefaced with : “ Thus saith the 
Lord;” Celia might have spoken the same words. 
But, oh, what a relief they were ! Now the dark- 
ness was made light ; there was something for her 
to do that she could do. It was the doing noth- 
ing that was unbearable. 

If it were not herself, that was the end of it; if 
it were, why, she must do the next thing. And 
then, when it was over, and she was still enough 
to think, she would ask Mr. Ryle about the Spirit 
speaking, how He spoke and what He spoke. 
She could not remember — she could not remem- 
ber any thing; Vail was shouting that it was a 
jolly snow-storm and Celia was bidding her to 
cook papa’s eggs just five minutes and not to let 
the water boil. She opened her eyes suddenly, 
the snow was falling thick and fast; she must 


UNTIL THURSDAY, 


293 


have been asleep again, for Cousin Jane had risen 
and gone down-stairs. She remembered that Cous- 
in Jane had said last night that she must rise 
early this morning. And what good thing had 
happened? Now she knew; she had decided to 
ask Mr. Eyle. It must be very early or very 
stormy, for she could scarcely see to dress; she 
was tempted to lie down again, only it was self- 
ish to let grandma kindle both fires and prepare 
the breakfast. With a light heart, for it was to 
be a busy day and a happy day, she hastened 
down-stairs. There was no fire in the Franklin, 
the ashes were raked over the coals as they were 
left last night, the fire in the kitchen stove had 
not been kindled ; the stove doors had been opened 
and a newspaper and pieces of kindling laid in 
ready to light. The door into the shed stood 
open. 

“ Grandma ! grandma ! ” she called, going to the 
open door. “ Oh, why grandma ! ” she cried, al- 
most shrieking as she spoke. Upon the ground 
among the chips Miss Westlake lay, with her face 
turned from her, as motionless as if she were dead. 
“ Oh, grandma,” springing towards her, “ Are you 
sick or hurt ? ” 

The head turned slowly; Miss Westlake spoke 
with a slow, thick, uncertain utterance. “Don’t 
be frightened ; I fell down ; I can’t take care of my 
head ; can you help me up ? ” 

“ Are you hurt anywhere ? ” asked Electa, trying 
to raise her shoulders. 


294 


ELECTA. 


“ I don’t know ; I feel very queer — I thought I 
was dying.” 

With both arms she attempted to lift her, but 
she was a dead weight; she grasped Electa with 
her left arm, her right arm dropped to her side as 
she tried to lift it. 

“ I can’t steady myself,” she moaned. 

With all her might Electa sought to lift her; 
after some time she succeeded in raising her to 
her feet, but as she sought to guide her with her 
arms about her waist, Cousin Jane staggered and 
fell forward upon her face. 

Electa rolled her over upon her side, kneeling 
beside her with both arms around her. 

“You can’t get me in,” Miss Westlake said after 
a moment. 

“I see that I can’t; I must leave you here and 
go for some one.” 

Very gently she laid her head back upon the 
ground; she remembered to have seen brandy and 
hartshorn in the chimney closet in the sitting- 
room ; hastening in, she returned with the bottles 
and a spoon. She sprinkled the hartshorn upon 
the bosom of her dress and fed her two teaspoon- 
fuls of brandy. The color came slowly to Miss 
Westlake’s lips, but there was a film over her eyes, 
and her lips seemed to have lost their control. 

“ Go to the first house,” she managed to say. 

“ And leave you here ? Oh, I don’t want to do 
that,” cried Electa in a distressed voice; “if John 
Gray had only stayed all night.” 


UNTIL THURSDAY, 


295 


“Put on your rubbers; don’t get lost — or get 
cold.” 

Electa stood a moment thinking, then went into 
Miss Westlake’s down -stairs sleeping room and 
brought blankets and pillows ; she placed the pil- 
lows under her head and shoulders and wrapped 
her in the blankets. 

“I’ll leave the brandy and hartshorn close to 
your hand ; be sure to use them if you feel faint, 
won’t you ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Can you see me, grandma ? ” she asked, kneel- 
ing beside her and taking her right hand. 

“ Not very well. I expect Lily is hungry, don’t 
forget to feed her. Do you know how to milk ? ” 

“No; but I’ll find somebody that does know 
how.” 

“ Patty would be frightened ; I’m glad she isn’t 
here. Be quick and don’t get lost.” 

Electa kissed her hand two or three times. 

“ Pray — before you go.” 

Aloud did she mean ? for her or with her ? 

“ Pray out loud.” 

With her hand in both hers Electa prayed aloud, 
in a clear, trembling voice: “ Oh, Lord Jesus, please 
take care of her and don’t let her grow worse while 
I am gone, and help me to find somebody. And 
forgive us all our sins, and teach us to obey Thee, 
for Jesus’ sake. Amen.” 

Without waiting for rubbers or bonnet she 
snatched her shawl from the sofa and threw it 


296 


ELECTA. 


over her head. “I’ll be quick, grandma; don’t 
be anxious, and don’t try to get up, will you, 
please ? ” 

“No, I’ll keep still; go to the first house.” 

Opening the door with difficulty, the snow hav- 
ing drifted against it, she went out into the snow ; 
her feet sank in the snow over the tops of her 
boots, but she soon discovered that it had blown 
into drifts and she might avoid the drifts. Beach- 
ing the front gate she looked up and down, through 
the thickly falling snow she could not discern the 
outlines of a single building. If it were nearer 
to go up the road or down the road she had no 
means of deciding; the wind would blow in her 
face if she went up the road, therefore she turned 
in the contrary direction that she might run more 
speedily. If the houses were back from the road 
she would certainly pass them; standing in the 
middle of the road she could not tell whether the 
fences were stone- walls or whether they might 
not be picket fences ; in front of some houses she 
had noticed from the windows that the stone-walls 
ceased and picket fences began. If she walked 
close to the stone-wall, stretching out her hand 
now and then, she would know when she came 
in front of a picket fence or a gate. Her hurrying 
feet bore her along where her blinded eyes could 
not see the way; stretching out her hand once in 
a while, she ran on, stumbling often; it would 
grow lighter every moment, that was a comfort. 
A house could not be very far away; but suppose 


UNTIL THURSDAY. 


297 


slie should pass it? By and by she must come 
to Walnut Grove or somewhere. If it were not so 
early she might meet some one. In “ Snow Bound ” 
didn’t they turn out and break the roads ? 

“ Down the long hillside treading slow 
We saw the half-buried oxen go.” 

Oh, she must hurry ! Grandma might die there 
all alone ! How long the time must seem to her. 
Stone- walls, stone- walls! Stone- walls and snow! 
She plodded on and on. 

Stretching out her hand again and again and 
yet again at last she touched a wooden gate; the 
gate stood partly open, she pushed her way 
through and ran up to the low porch. There 
was neither light nor sound within; it must be 
very early for no one to be astir; she lifted the 
latch, the door was fastened; she knocked and 
pounded with all her might, then cried aloud: 
“Let me in, let me in.” 

But neither voice nor footstep replied. She 
found another door and shook it and pounded upon 
it; the windows were almost above her head, but 
she managed to tap upon the lowest panes. All 
her efforts brought neither light nor voice. Almost 
disheartened she turned towards the gate; there 
was nothing to do but go on. 

Out in the road again with a fainting heart, 
holding her shawl tightly with one bare hand, 
she ran on. After some distance, she put out her 
hand to find the wall and touched nothing; was 


298 


ELECTA. 


the wall broken down, or had she come to a turn 
in the road ? Would it be better to cross the road 
and see what there was on the other side ? If a 
voice would only speak now ! Hark ! that was 
something ! There it was again ! The distant 
tinkle of sleigh bells. She stood still to listen; 
they were coming nearer and nearer. She would 
not move, for if this were a turn in the road, they 
might pass her and go this way; she would stand 
still and call. Surely the bells were a voice. The 
tinkle of a sleigh bell would always mean some- 
thing to her after this ! Louder and clearer, nearer 
and nearer ! Suppose they should not hear when 
she called? Stationing herself in the middle of 
the road, she dropped her shawl and lifted both 
hands over her head. A heavy sled drawn by 
two horses was approaching; a man was driving, 
a little boy sat beside him. 

“ Hallo ! ” shouted the man, “ what’s this ? What’s 
wanted ? ” 

He could not stop the horses until they had 
passed her; she went to his side and clutched his 
arm. “ Miss Jane Westlake is very sick and wants 
somebody to come ; I came out for help,” she cried, 
gasping. 

“A little thing like you! Ain’t you got a 
bonnet ? ” 

“ I dropped my shawl I ” 

“ Sam, jump off and pick it up. Here, sis, give 
me your hand. Is it far ? ” he asked, as she climbed 
in beside him. 


UNTIL THURSDAY. 


299 


“I don’t know; I think it is.” 

The little boy brought the shawl and the man 
threw it around her and over her head. 

“It’s lucky I came this way,” said the man; “I 
didn’t know why I did, either. What’s the matter 
with her ? Want a doctor ? ” 

“ I don’t know what the matter is ; she fell down 
in the woodshed, and I can’t get her into the 
house. Will you go for a doctor, too?” she asked 
anxiously. 

“ Who is her doctor ? ” 

“ It would be better to go for the nearest one.” 

“ That’s Swanzey.” 

“ Is it ? ” she cried eagerly, “ then will you go to 
Mr. Kyle’s parsonage and ask him to come, and 
will you stop at Mr. Morris’s and tell John Gray 
that grandma is sick and wants to see him. I 
shall thank you very much.” 

“With pleasure, sis; do you live alone with 
her?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You oughtn’t to.” 

“I shall have to watch for the house; it’s back 
from the street on high ground, a brick house, and 
the stone-wall is twice as high as the others are.” 

“I know the house; you have walked a mile; 
why didn’t you stop at a house ? ” 

“ I did, but nobody lived there” 

“ Git up,” cried the man, slapping the backs of 
the horses with the lines. “Is there a place for 
me to drive in ? ” 


300 


ELECTA. 


“ I don’t know ; I’ve only been there a few days.’' 

“ Sam will hold the horses then. Git up, Jinny.” 
In a few moments they stopped at the front gate; 
the man sprang out, tossed the reins to the boy, 
and lifted Electa to the ground. She opened the 
door with a great dread, peering in with fright- 
ened eyes, but there was nothing to frighten her. 
Miss Westlake lay in the same position with her 
eyes closed, opening them slowly when Electa 
touched her. 

“ I’ve found somebody, grandma ; he will carry 
you in.” 

“ Put me in mother’s bed,” she said. 

She could not stand steadily upon her feet; the 
man supported her up the steps, through the 
kitchen and sitting-room across the hall, and laid 
her upon the bed in the room that she and Electa 
had prepared. 

“I’m very comfortable,” she said, as Electa 
smoothed the pillow and laid the blankets over 
her. 

“ Put a brick to her feet, and give her some- 
thing hot to drink,” said the man; “now I’ll go 
for the parson and the doctor.” 

“And John Gray,” added Electa. 

“Have you fed Lily?” asked Miss Westlake, 
opening her eyes. 

“Will you feed the cow?” asked Electa; “I’ll 
show you where she is. Now, grandma, don’t be 
anxious, we’ll do every thing.” 

With a sigh Miss Westlake, closed her eyes. 


UNTIL THURSDAY. 


301 


“ I’m glad this room was ready,” she said. “ Lecty, 
send for Mr. Eyle and the lawyer.” 

It was nearly two hours before J ohn Gray came ; 
Miss Westlake smiled and said that she was glad 
to see him and asked him not to go away. 

Electa had kindled a fire in the stove in “ mother’s 
room,” opening the door into the sleeping-room, 
the sick room was comfortable and cosey ; she had 
persuaded Miss Westlake to let her take ofi* her 
dress and put on a night dress ; she had taken off 
her shoes and laid a heated brick covered with 
flannel close to her feet, coaxed her to drink a cup 
of tea and taste a bit of dry toast. The fire was 
burning in the kitchen and on the hearth of the 
Franklin; the breakfast-table had not been set, 
the books were piled up on the table as she had 
left them last night. Electa went out leaving 
John Gray and Miss Westlake alone together. 

“John Gray,” she said solemnly. 

“ Well, grandma,” he said cheerily. “ Now, don’t 
talk to me as if you were going to die. We can’t 
spare you for a hundred years yet. Don’t die and 
spoil all our good times.” 

“ I may be helpless ; I don’t think that I shall 
die right away ; my mother had three strokes — can 
you understand what I say ? ” 

“Yes, but you do not speak distinctly.” 

“ Be good to Electa, won’t you ? ” she said very 
tenderly. 

“I’ll take care of her all my life,” he said 
earnestly. 


302 


ELECTA, 


“ I can trust you.” 

Out in the sitting-room in Miss Westlake’s chair 
before the Franklin Electa waited for the doctor 
and Mr. Eyle. Mr. Ryle came about noon. He 
kissed her, and kept her beside him while he talked 
to Miss Westlake. 

“Get dinner for Mr. Ryle,” said Miss Westlake; 
“ get him a nice dinner, Lecty.” 

Electa was very glad to busy herself again; 
John had milked Lily and fed her and was taking 
care of the fires. 

She went out, closing the door quickly lest she 
should catch some word about the will, lingering 
about the preparations for dinner and almost trem- 
bling as she returned to call Mr. Ryle to dinner. 
But they were silent as she opened the door ; Miss 
Westlake appeared very much exhausted, and did 
not refuse the brandy that Electa held to her lips. 
If it were not for John Gray she could ask Mr. 
Eyle the question while they were at dinner. 

“ ril stay with grandma,” suggested John Gray, 
entering the sitting-room with an armful of wood ; 
“ give me a cup of tea for her. Electa.” 

She poured the tea and gave it to him after he 
had deposited the wood in the wood-box, then 
silently took Miss Westlake’s place at the head of 
the table. Must she ask Mr*. Ryle to ask a bless- 
ing? Very shyly she made the request and bowed 
her head. The blessing she prayed for was that she 
might have the courage to ask Mr. Ryle the dreaded 
question. 


UNTIL THURSDAY, 


303 


“You have been outside the gate,” he said, pass- 
ing her the biscuits. 

“And I expect she was anxious enough, poor 
grandma.” 

“ No ; now that she feels herself so weak she has 
more trust in God; she rests in His strength as she 
did not do when she felt some strength in herself.” 

Electa opened her biscuit and buttered it. 

“Mr. Ryle — I’ll have to tell you now — I can’t go 
on till I know the truth; last Monday I couldn’t 
help overhearing what grandma said to you — a 
part of it — not about John Gray, but — about some- 
body else ; if it were I she meant, I want to tell her 
that I did overhear, that I do know, and I don’t 
want her to feel — ” 

“ She did mean you ; the house and land and one 
thousand dollars are to become yours.” 

She colored and let the biscuit fall from her 
fingers. 

“ But she doesn’t want me to know, she thinks I 
will love her just for that,” falt^ed Electa; “ and I 
want to tell her before the lawyer comes this 
afternoon.” 

“ Will it not excite her ? ” he asked. 

“Will it? Oh, do you think it will? And 
can’t I tell her at all ? I don’t want to be deceit- 
ful. I can’t enjoy nursing her — I can’t, I know I 
can’t — if I am keeping a secret from her. I must 
tell her; can’t I tell her quietly, or can’t you per- 
suade her to postpone making the will ? ” 

“ She will not consent to that.” 


304 


ELECTA. 


“ Then I must tell her,” said Electa, decidedly. 

“I think that I could tell her more quietly; I 
might tell her in a way not to excite her at all ; 
will you entrust it to me ? ” 

“You are very good to me,” was all Electa could 
utter. 

“Then be good to me by helping me eat this 
nice dinner; you haven’t eaten a mouthful; this 
cold chicken is delicious and this pumpkin pie re- 
minds me of the love of my boyhood.” 

“We made the pies yesterday, and had such a 
lovely time.” 

“I will tell her immediately; don’t be anxious 
another moment.” 

“ I can’t believe that my trouble is over,” sighed 
Electa; “it’s so good I can’t believe it. I can’t eat, 
I’m too happy.” 

She was too happy to talk. Mr. Kyle said to 
himself as he looked at her subdued, chastened face 
that the girl was growing sweeter every hour. 

John Gray came out with the brick in his hand 
and the cup and saucer on it. 

“ I have another hot brick,” said Electa. 

“I’ll take it to her,” said Mr. Ryle; “I’m a famous 
nurse.” 

“ And I’ll put it to her feet,” said Electa, “ and 
look at her, and then come out.” 

As she was moving towards the door to leave 
Miss Westlake’s room, Mr. Kyle said in a low tone, 
“I’ll call you in a few moments.” 

She would not wait outside the door; she seated 


UNTIL THURSDAY. 


305 


herself on the stairs and dropped her head in her 
hands. It was almost harder to bear this sus- 
pense than to go in and confess it herself. Would 
grandma send her away now when she needed her 
more than ever ? Nan or Mollie might come and 
take her place, but they dreaded a sick-room, while 
she herself was a born nurse, every body said. 
She would be glad to go home ; all she wanted in 
this world was to feel Celia’s two arms around her. 
She had often told Celia that her presence alone 
was enough to make her happy. The door was 
opening; — no, he was moving within. He was 
talking earnestly, now he was still — was Cousin 
Jane speaking — was she sending her home? 

‘‘Electa,” John Gray was calling from the sit- 
ting-room door, “ what are you waiting there for ? ” 

“ I don’t know — I’ve done the hard thing, and I’m 
waiting for the end.” 

At that instant Mr. Eyie opened the door. 

“ Electa,” he said. The tone itself brought her the 
good news. 

“Lecty, child,” whispered Miss Westlake, “kiss 
me and don’t fret any more.” 

Electa kissed her and did not fret any more. It 
was not a sentimental thing to do, but she went 
out into the sitting-room and ate a piece of pump- 
kin pie, a biscuit, a leg and a wing of the chicken, 
and a saucer of preserved plums. 

The lawyer and the doctor called at the same 
hour; the lawyer’s business was speedily settled; 
the doctor assured Electa that there was no imme- 


306 


ELECTA. 


diate danger, it was simply “ a bilious attack,” but 
he told Mr. Eyle that he would call again in the 
morning as the symptoms appeared serious. Mrs. 
Morris had promised to spend the night with them ; 
a competent woman to undertake the house-keep- 
ing would be secured as soon as possible. 

“Last night, only last night I was impatient 
with her because we couldn’t study,” thought Elec- 
ta, sitting alone with her in the twilight. 


XIII. 


SOMETHING GOOD. 

On Friday morning the physician announced 
that there was hope of Miss Westlake’s recovery, 
if she were kept in perfect quiet. “ She has been 
very much excited of late,” he said. “You know 
how to obey orders. Miss Electa; you will be a 
good nurse.” 

Mrs. Morris remained until noon; Electa was 
alone with Miss Westlake for an hour and then 
her anxiety was relieved by the coming of a 
neighbor. 

“I will stay to-night, and then if Mrs. Morris 
doesn’t come back, somebody else will come; don’t 
look so worried, dear.” 

“I don’t mean to be worried,” said Electa; “but 
she lies there so still and doesn’t talk ! ” 

Mr. Eyle called for a few moments late in the 
afternoon, he found Electa at the sitting-room 
window looking out into the snow. 

“ This is a lovely, white world,” she said; “the 
tinkle of the bells comfort me every hour. It was 
snowing when I awoke this morning; I was glad 
to have it stop.” 


308 


ELECTA. 


“ I saw the doctor this morning, his report was 
hopeful.” 

“ Oh, yes, if she is kept quiet; we scarcely speak 
in her room. How is Mrs. Eyle ? ” 

“ Doing well and full of sympathy for you all.” 

“ Mr. Ryle ! ” He had drawn a chair to the 
Franklin and was sitting with his feet upon the 
hearth. 

“ Come to the sofa before you proceed.” 

The sofa cushion %vas restful ; she leaned her el- 
bows and hands upon it and tried to fashion her 
thought into words. 

“ How does the Spirit speak to us ? ” 

“Just the way in which you, at that instant, 
most need to be spoken to.” 

“ Then there are not any set phrases ? ” 

“ Often it is in the words of the Scriptures : He 
shall bring all things to our remembrance; He 
teaches us the meaning of the words uttered by 
God and by Christ.” 

“ Then He doesn’t speak just as you or Celia or 
papa would speak ? ” 

“ When He speaks through us to you. He speaks 
as we would speak ; should He speak to you through 
John Gray, He might not use the words that He 
would use should He speak to you through Martin 
Luther or your father. In every truth that you 
receive He speaks to you, whether it be a truth 
you find in the Bible or in any otlier book, whether 
it is given to you from the pulpit or in ordinary 
conversation, or whether it came silently to your 


SOMETHING GOOD. 


309 


spirit. Christ said that it was better for us that 
the Spirit should come to us than that He should 
remain in the world with us.” 

Electa was silent. 

“ Do you understand me ? ” 

“I understand; — but I wanted to know if God 
does speak to me in real, human words.” 

“He speaks to you as you can understand; 
would he speak to you in Hebrew or Greek or 
Sanscrit ? He speaks to you plain English words ; 
to a German maiden He speaks in plain German 
words; he speaks to you about every thing that 
you need to be spoken to about; doesn’t that cover 
all your needs ? ” 

She still was puzzled. 

“ But how do I know it is God who is speaking ; 
why may it not be my own naughty heart, or 
Satan ? ” 

“You do not know God very well if you can not 
detect the difference. Christ says that His sheep 
know His voice ; the voice of a stranger will they 
not follow. Before I entered, if you had heard a 
voice that sounded like my voice calling out in 
profane words, would you have said: Mr. Kyle is 
coming ? ” 

“No, indeed.” 

“ If you should hear a voice like your father’s 
voice speaking cruelly and unkindly to Vail, would 
you say: ‘ That is papa talking to Vail? ’ ” 

“No; I should know better.” 

“ Because you know your father and know that 


310 


ELECTA. 


would not be like him. When you hear a voice 
if it is like Christ and like God, whom else can it 
be but God the Spirit, speaking for them to you ? 
Learn what God the Father is, learn what God 
the Son is, then you can never fail to recognize 
the voice of God the Spirit. You will surely hear 
His voice and know it, for Christ says : ‘ They shall 
hear My voice.’ The words will be the words that 
you can best understand; if you were telling a 
story to Guy, you would not choose the words in 
which you would speak to your father. The Spirit 
speaks to you as a child. He chooses simple, easy 
words, the words in which you think. He chooses 
your words, as you would choose Guy’s words. 
He speaks as a tender, loving, wise mother; you 
know that God is father and mother also; some- 
times you need counsel, sometimes rebuke, some- 
times encouragement, sometimes He speaks like 
father, sometimes like mother. There isn’t any 
thing about which the Spirit will not speak to 
you; if you should fall asleep, and He wished 
grandma to have something done to relieve her. 
He would awaken you that you might do it. More 
than once I have asked Him to waken me at the 
right moment, when I felt that I needed sleep; 
perhaps He spoke to me, perhaps He touched me.” 

There was a soft, happy shining in Electa s eyes. 

“ The Spirit is nearer to you than Christ would 
be if He stood in this room, nearer than He would 
be unaccompanied by His Spirit within you ; many 
that His hand touched when He was upon earth 


SOMETHING GOOD, 


311 


were healed because He touched them, but they 
were not as near Him as you are this moment, if 
the Spirit be in your heart; one whom He healed 
wist not who it was that healed him, others did 
not care enough even to thank Him, and Judas, 
whose lips touched Him, was in that touch of the 
lips betraying Him.” 

She bowed her head upon the cushion and did 
not speak. 

“ You need never be alone, you need never live 
one moment in which He will not be with you ; if 
you do not hear His voice at the instant you ask 
for it, it may be that your spirit is not still enough ; 
He is making you still enough to listen, that very 
hush of your spirit before He speaks is the evidence 
of His presence with you.” 

She was very still now, listening to the voice 
of the Spirit through the words pf Mr. Kyle, — hu- 
man words, words just like her own. 

“ He moveth in us not only to but to do His 
good pleasure ; that silent moving of His will upon 
your will is His influence; you could not leave 
your own will undone that you might do His will 
except it be that His power is upon you; you will 
to do, and you will not to do, because He changes 
your mind; you feel, you think, you will, you do 
God’s will and good pleasure, because He moves 
you, sometimes in one way, sometimes in an- 
other, to feel, to think, to will, to do. God is ever 
speaking to us by His Spirit, by His word, by His 
providence.” 


312 


ELECTA, 


She kept her head upon the cushion, not speak- 
ing ; she remembered that hour as the hour in which 
she gave herself up wholly to the Spirit’s keeping. 
J ohn Gray was in the shed stamping the snow off 
his feet. 

“I’ve brought her, Electa,” he said, coming in. 
“ Come in here, Mrs. Hope.” 

Electa arose to meet a middle-aged woman with 
a pleasant face and quietly efficient manner. 

“ Show her where to hang her bonnet and shawl,” 
said John Gray, “and she’s at home; you needn’t 
tell her a thing.” 

Mr. Eyle went into Miss Westlake’s room while 
Electa conferred with Mrs. Hope in the kitchen. Mr. 
Eyle turned back to say to Electa as he was pass- 
ing through the kitchen: “I’ll be in again Mon- 
day night, and perhaps I’ll bring you something.” 

“Something delightful?” she asked eagerly. 

“ Something very delightful,” he said laughing. 

“ I’ll have it to look forward to,” she said to her- 
self. “Looking forward” was one of Electa’s great 
pleasures. She went back to the sofa, curling her- 
self up and resting head and hands upon the worn, 
red, sofa cushion. 

“What are your cheeks so red about?” asked 
John Gray, coming to the Franklin and standing 
with his arms folded upon his breast. 

“Ever so many things.” 

“ Does your head ache ? ” 

“ I Begin to understand that it has been aching 
a long time.” 


SOMETHING GOOD. 


313 


“ ril get you some lemons when I go to the mail. 
I have something to show you and something to 
tell you, which will you have first?” 

“ I’ll take the bitter before the sweet.” 

One is a secret.” 

“ This twilight is just the time for confidences.” 

“The other all the village will know by Mon- 
day night.” 

“ Has it any thing to do with what Mr. Ryle is 
to bring me ? ” 

“ 1 don’t know what he is to bring you. You 
look pretty with rosy cheeks.” 

“ Nobody ever said that before.” 

“ Perhaps you never had rosy cheeks before. 
Guess what good thing has happened to me.” 

Electa started. 

Did he know about the will? 

“ Is it an outside happening or an inside 
happening ? ” 

“Both.” 

“ Please don’t keep me waiting.” 

“ I was so surprised that it lifted me out of my 
boots. One day this week our school-master was 
taken sick; yesterday he was taken home, and 
what do you think the trustees have done ? They 
have asked me to take the school for a month, and 
if I give satisfaction, wish me to teach all winter. 
Hov/ is that for splendid?” 

“ Oh, it is splendid ! ” she cried, sitting upright. 
“1 knew you were ‘called* to teach. Aren’t you 
rather young, though?” 


314 


ELECTA. 


“ How old am I, do you think? ” he asked flush- 
ing crimson. 

“ Seventeen — almost.” 

“ Eighteen — nearly. I call myself eighteen upon 
Christmas Day. I suppose you know I have no* 
birthday and no name. I am nobody. I have 
nothing behind me. I have no claim to your 
notice, except this, the honor of Mr. Eyle’s friend- 
ship.” 

“ You have the claim of being yourself” 

“John Gray! Who is John Gray?” 

“He is the man that God created and Christ 
redeemed,” said Electa, with the awe of the 
thought upon her. “ How dare you say that you 
are nobody ? ” 

After a long pause he said in a husky voice, 
“Thank you.” 

“ Shall you begin Monday ? ” 

“Monday morning.” 

“ Are there many large boys and girls.” 

“ Several about my age.” 

“ I am so very glad.” 

“Now you can not order me around; I shall not 
be your errand boy merely.” 

“You were not that — merely.” 

“ Will you take me to board ? ” 

“No, sir.” 

“ Then I shall go away then.” 

“Go.” 

“You think that horses and oxen wouldn’t draw 
me. Do you know what I promised grandma 


SOMETHING GOOD. 


315 


yesterday ? That I would take care of you — ” he 
hesitated, he could not say, “all my life.” 

“ Do you know how ? ” 

“I can learn.” 

“ Now what is the secret ? ” 

“I’ll show you that? Can you see it in the 
firelight ? ” 

“I have eyes for a secret any time of day or 
night.” 

“ Are you happy about that secret that troubled 
you?” 

“ Not happy, but relieved. It wasn’t so bad as 
I feared; Mr. Ryle made it easy for me.” 

“You and Mr. Ryle seem to be great friends,” he 
said, with the slightest protest in his voice. 

“ I am not the friend, he is. He is my hero.” 

“ Perhaps you don’t care to know my secret.” 

Electa could feel without understanding the 
change in his tone. Had she said any thing to 
hurt him? 

“ Perhaps you are not interested,” he said trying 
to speak carelessly. 

“In a secret ? I am always interested in a 
secret.” 

“ But not in my secret, perhaps.” 

“You want me to coax you; Mr. Gray, please 
tell me your secret,” she said coaxingly. 

“ Now you are laughing at me.” 

He ivas hurt; in the twilight she could see the 
deep color in cheek and brow. 

“I beg your pardon for acting so. I am fool- 


316 


ELECTA. 


ishly sensitive, but it is like showing you all my 
heart ; it touches me as nothing else could ; I am 
a stupid, blundering fellow, and I don’t see what 
ever moved me to try. I am thoroughly ashamed 
of myself” 

Under the kitchen table he had hidden a small, 
black valise; hastily he brought it to her, opened 
it and laid on her lap a pile of closely written 
manuscript; it was written in ink and only upon 
one side of the sheet. ‘‘ My little pile of hard 
work,” he said, tenderly smoothing with his hand 
the page upon the top of the pile ; “ I have worked 
nights for two years on this. There are a thou- 
sand pages of half foolscap here; twice 1 wrote it 
in pencil and twice I have written it in ink. It is 
a book for boys,” his voice trembled, he spoke 
almost incoherently; she bent her head to catch 
his words; “it is for boys between ten and four- 
teen ; the story of a boy between ten and fourteen, 
fatherless, motherless, sisterless, brotherless, the 
‘heir of all the ages.’ Many of the experiences 
are real. I have written it out of my heart from 
love to boys and from love to the Lord, who was 
once a boy between ten and fourteen. No one 
knows it, not even Mr. Eyle. For two or three 
years I have written poems and sketches for pa- 
• pers. I suppose that encouraged me ; I do feel very 
much ashamed to think I have dared.” 

Electa s wonder and awe were in her eyes; she 
was too much astonished to speak one word. She 
touched the manuscript reverently. 


SOMETHING GOOD. 


317 


“Don’t look at me so,” he said, with a happy 
langh; “1 haven’t written a book; this is only a 
manuscript, it may be a rejected manuscript.” 

“It is a treasure,” she said, hugging it in both 
arms. “Mustn’t I tell? Oh, I do want to tell.” 

“A secret is a thing to be kept.” 

“Then I won’t tell. I’ll go in and see grandma, 
and then light a candle and read. I’m very proud 
of your secret, Mr. Gray.” 

The shy, proud, luminous, gray eyes were some- 
thing to see. It was worth while to live all his 
life to come to that moment. 

Electa stepped softly across the hall and opened 
the door of the sick-room. The odor of medicine, 
the candle placed where the light would not 
fall upon the pillow, the warning finger raised as 
she entered the room, stayed her steps and filled 
her with a new dread. She had not thought that 
grandma would die. 

“She’s quiet; be easy, don’t speak loud; don’t 
disturb her; she doesn’t need any thing,” whis- 
pered the owner of the finger in a loud, threaten- 
ing whisper, rising suddenly and stepping heavily 
towards the bed. 

Electa’s face flushed indignantly, with a slight 
gesture she motioned her away and noiselessly 
approached the bed. Electa’s footstep was as light^ 
as a snowflake; she bent and touched the helpless 
right hand with her warm, soft lips. 

“ Lecty ! I’m very comfortable,” said Miss West- 
lake in a weak voice; “don’t fret about it.” 


318 


ELECTA, 


“ You look as sweet and pretty as a saint,” said 
Electa lovingly. 

“ Is every thing all right ? ” 

“ Every thing is lovely.” 

“ Does John feed Lily ? ” 

“ Yes, and milk her. I’ve made you some lovely 
beef tea; will you take it and grow strong? ” 

“Yes; you are very good to me. I’ve been 
thinking about that poor old woman left alone in 
the desert; I am not alone, I have my two children.” 

“You shall never be left alone, never. I am 
going to sleep in the rocker close to your bed, and 
John will sleep in the other room and keep the 
fire burning, and all you have to do is to go to 
sleep and get well.” 

“ Tell me — tell me something to keep my mind 
on, — one thing to think about.” 

The warning finger was being upheld at her 
side, a loud whisper was close to her ear : “ Don’t 
stay too long.” 

Electa’s lips touched the pretty, white hair on 
the old forehead ; she said clearly : 

“ ‘ I’m a poor sinner and nothing at all, 

But Jesus Christ is my all in all.* ” 

“That is good,” murmured Miss Westlake in a 
refreshed voice. 

Electa slipped out to bring the beef tea, leaving 
Mrs. Hancock, the neighbor, besieging Miss West- 
lake with questions. Bending over her she asked 
in a guttural whisper: “Are you warm enough?” 


SOMETHING GOOD. 


319 


“Yes,” was the quick reply. 

“ Don’t you feel any air at all ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Don’t you want to lie on your side ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Isn’t your head too high ? ” 

“No.” 

“Don’t your think it is most time for your 
medicine ? 

“ I don’t know,” she answered uneasily. 

“ You took it out of the cup last time; you take it 
out of the tumbler this time ; don’t you remember? ” 

A frown gathered upon her forehead, she uttered 
a sound of impatience. 

“ Does Electa trouble you ? ” 

“No, indeed; I want her all the time.” 

“Wouldn’t you rather have me stay with you 
to-night?” 

“No; I want her and John.” 

“ They are very inexperienced ; when my Wil- 
liam Henry had a hemorrhage I sat up with him 
nineteen nights hand-running without taking my 
clothes off; that saved his life. Shall I lift you up 
to take your beef tea ? ” 

“No.” 

“How are your feet? ” 

“Warm enough.” 

“Electa looks half sick; you ought to let her go 
to bed ; she sat up half the night last night.” 

“ She must go then ; tell her.” 

As soon as Electa entered with the beef tea Mrs. 


32.0 


ELECTA, 


Hancock hurriedly gave the message: “She says 
you must go to bed to-night.” 

“Yes, you must,” Miss Westlake added firmly. 

“I’ll be comfortable, grandma; I’ll sleep all the 
evening and come in at midnight.” As soon as the 
words were spoken she regretted them ; she must 
keep her word, and, oh, how she wanted to read 
John Gray’s manuscript. But the promise could 
not be recalled; her eyes filled with disappointed 
tears. 

Mrs. Hope set the tea-table without asking any 
questions. Electa almost felt as if she were the 
stranger instead of Mrs. Hope. John Gray came 
from the mail with the lemons and a lively letter 
from Nan. The letter, her headache, an increasing 
soreness in her throat, and her disappointment 
about reading the manuscript brought all the old 
homesickness back. She covered herself up on the 
lounge, her head away from the light. 

“ I suppose I must keep my word ? ” she said to 
John Gray questioningly ; “but couldn’t I rest 
while I read ? ” 

“ Did you promise to rest or sleep ? ” 

“ I promised to sleep.” 

“You may not be able to sleep, but you have no 
right to take any step to keep yourself awake. 
My book might put you to sleep.” 

She nestled her head resolutely in the cushion 
thinking over Nan’s letter. The only bit of star- 
tling news was that Halstead Seymour had mar- 
ried Jennie Hood. “ Poor Celia,” she thought, “ I 


SOMETHING GOOD. 


321 


wonder what she finds to comfort her up in God’s 
heart. Perhaps He will let something very good 
happen to her. Out in His world such dreadful 
things happen that if we couldn’t look up in His 
heart, our hearts would break.” 

Did she think that of herself? Was the Spirit 
thinking it for her and speaking it to her ? Words 
learned long ago came to her: “We know not 
what we should pray for as we ought, but the 
Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groan- 
ings that can not be uttered.” Every prayer of 
hers that God granted, then, must be because the 
Spirit taught her to long for the thing and then 
to ask for it. Was it the Spirit that had moved 
her to want to do something for somebody ? And 
what was she doing? Just now she was doing 
the hardest thing she could do ; she was going to 
sleep for somebody. 

“ Electa ! ” 

John Gray was awaking her gently. “ It is half- 
past eleven; wake up and drink some more hot 
lemonade and then go in grandma’s room. Mrs. 
Hancock came out to forbid me to awaken you, 
but I knew that you trusted me to do it.” 

Electa rubbed her sleepy eyes. What was the 
matter? Was Vail sick or Celia? And what had 
Halstead Seymour done ? 

“ If you set the light where it will not disturb 
her, you might read the manuscript now, mightn’t 
you?” 

“ So I might,” she answered eagerly, fully awake; 


322 


ELECTA. 


“ I dreamed that it was about somebody who was 
hanged. Because my throat hurts me, I suppose.” 

With many cautions and commands Mrs. Han- 
cock left the sick-room, bidding Electa call her, 
“ if there should be any change.” After that Elec- 
ta had no heart to open the manuscript. She 
moved the rocker to the side of the bed and sat 
with her eyes wide open upon the face asleep in 
the shadow. At two o’clock she was to give the 
medicine from the cup. 

“Don’t by any means make a mistake,” ex- 
plained Mrs. Hancock; “one is dark, the other 
light ; one in a cup, one in a tumbler ; one is cov- 
ered with a book, the other with a piece of white 
paper; one is on the bureau, the other on the 
washstand; medicine is very powerful, you might 
hasten her death if you should make a mistake. 
At t»wo the cup, at four the tumbler; at six the 
cup, at eight — but I shall be down before then; 
keep her feet warm, and don’t talk to her, above 
all things. And call me if her finger-nails grow 
purple, or if her under jaw should fall.” 

Electa looked at her finger-nails every few mo- 
ments; twice her lips moved; was the jaw falling? 
She thought of going upstairs and asking Mrs. 
Hope to come and sit with her, but that would be 
selfish; and John Gray was tired. She was lonely 
and Mrs. Hancock had frightened her; but she 
would be brave as long as she could; when her 
courage utterly failed she would speak to John. 

There was not a sound within the silent house 


SOMETHING GOOD. 


323 


until the clock in the sitting-room struck two. 
She had left the door of the sitting-room ajar that 
she might hear the striking of the clock. She 
arose slowly, half asleep, and staggered towards 
the bureau, filled the spoon from the tumbler, and 
placed it between Miss Westlake’s lips. 

“ Lecty,” she said, adding after a pause, in a 
whisper : “ I’m a poor sinner — and nothing — noth- 
ing—” 

As she turned she stood with the spoon uplifted. 
She had given the medicine from the tumbler, and 
Mrs. Hancock had said that at two o’clock it must 
be given from the cup. She had certainly said the 
cup ! Eeplacing the spoon she dropped heavily 
into her chair. She had done the wrong thing; 
what could she do now but bear it ? It could not 
hasten her death; how could it? The physician 
would not leave any medicine that would hasten 
her death; but it must make a difference, else he 
would not have been so urgent in his orders. 
What would the difference be? She must sit 
still two hours and watch for it. And how would 
she know which to give next time? Her throat 
was very sore and she was burning up with fever. 
If Celia’s hand might only touch her head; if Celia 
could only give her something so that it would 
not hurt her so to swallow. 

“ Lecty ! ” 

Electa was on her feet. 

“ I have such a pain — I can’t catch my breath — 
under my left shoulder — ” 


324 


ELECTA. 


Tlie wrong medicine ! Electa shook from head 
to feet. She could not speak. 

“ Make a mustard plaster, quick.” 

But she flewT upstairs to awaken Mrs. Hope, 
gasping forth the whole story. 

“It’s pleurisy or something, I guess; I’ll soon 
fix it,” was the reassuring reply. 

Electa could obey orders ; she obeyed Mrs. Hope 
for the next two hours. At dawn the house was 
still again, and Electa went to sleep on the sitting- 
room sofa and slept as restfully as sore throat and 
fever would permit. 

“ I knew something would happen if I left her,” 
exclaimed Mrs. Hancock, when awakened at eight 
o’clock. 

Saturday and Sunday were two busy days. Mrs. 
Hancock went home Saturday noon, to Electa’s 
great relief. Sunday afternoon Electa read John 
Gray’s manuscript. She sat on the sofa wrapped 
in a blanket, with her throat bundled up in flannel, 
part of the manuscript in her lap and part slipping 
off the sofa cushion. John Gray stationed himself 
at the window with a volume of a Commentary, 
but his eyes were upon the "absorbed reader’s face 
oftener than upon the pages of his book. 

“Did all these things happen to you?” she 
asked, lifting her eyes. 

“To me or to some boy I know.” 

“ They sound true.” 

“ They are true ; I had lived long years when I 
was fourteen.” 


SOMETHING GOOD. 


325 


“ Do you know a mother like this ? ” 

“ She is my ideal of motherhood.” 

“ Where do people get their ideals ? ” she asked 
as the thought came to her for the first time. 

“ Where do you get yours ? ” 

Electa looked very grave. Mr. Ryle would say 
from the Holy Spirit. “ This mother is no lovelier 
— nor so lovely, as my mother. Your ideal is not 
so lovely as the real. 

“ Of course not ; the real is God’s thought ; the 
ideal is our thought of His thought ; a glimpse of 
His thought that He gives to us.” 

Electa repeated the words : “ A glimpse of His 

thought that He gives to us.” Had John Gray 
grown old, or was she growing young? “Then 
you expect to find the real some day ? ” 

“I certainly do, — in some form.” 

“Do you know any one as lovely as this girl 
Marion ? ” 

“ She is my ideal of girlhood.” 

“She is true and brave and straightforward, 
gentle enough, and taking. I don’t know why 
she is so taking, either.” 

“Because she is content to be herself” 

“ She is like Celia and Robin and Nan. A com- 
bination of the three.” 

“ I knew that she was somewhere.” 

She read until dusk. “It helps me,” she said, 
piling it together. “ I like people better.” 

Miss Westlake asked them to sing in the even- 
ing, and afterward John Gray read a chapter in 


326 


ELECTA. 


the Bible. “We are a family, we should have 
family prayer,” suggested Miss Westlake. Electa 
and John knelt at the bedside; with her hand in 
Electa’s Miss Westlake prayed. “I thank Thee 
that Thou hast set the solitary in a family,” she 
began. 

Electa opened her eyes Monday morning with 
the words: “I shall have it to-night. It must be 
something very good.” The hope brightened all 
her day. In the afternoon Miss Westlake asked 
that she might sit up in bed; Electa made her com- 
fortable with pillows, and brushed out her long 
hair, chatting about the small events of the days 
past as if they were wonderful happenings in the 
great world. 

“John will have a story to tell to-night,” said 
Miss Westlake. 

“And I shall have something good; I hope it is 
something that I may share with you,” said Electa. 

The something was not brought until after sup- 
per. Electa was sitting at Miss Westlake’s bed- 
side, gently rubbing her right hand and talking 
about home when John Gray opened the door. 

“Mr. Eyle has come,” he said; “may he come 
in?” 

“To be sure,” returned Miss Westlake. 

Electa turned quickly as he came in ; he held no 
bundle in his hand; but for a certain lightness of 
step and a something in the grasp of his hand, she 
would have believed that he had a disappointment 
for her. 


SOMETHING GOOD, 


327 


“ I left it in the sitting-room,” he said. 

John Gray did not follow her. The door stood 
half open ; before the Franklin stood a figure in a 
cloak that she knew, the black velvet bonnet with 
the cluster of crimson roses she surely knew, and 
the face as it turned — 

“0, Celia,” she cried, springing into her arms; 
“0, Celia! Celia! Celia!” 


XIV. 


HER LESS0I^^5. 

“Now tell me all about it,” cried Electa, almost 
dragging Celia down to the sofa; “don’t stop to 
take off your things, that is, if you intend to take 
them off; I can’t wait.” 

But Celia only laughed and freed herself. 

“My letter didn’t bring you? I didn’t mean it 
to. I never thought of such a thing,” said Electa, 
her tone gathering indignation at the mere suppo- 
sition. 

“No; you didn’t! But somebody else did,” said 
Celia, untying her bonnet-strings. 

As Celia laid aside her cloak. Electa thought 
that she had grown slighter ; she had not noticed 
it at home, but now, looking at her with the eyes 
of the separation, she noted a decided change : she 
was not the Celia of a year ago ; her step was very 
light, her voice as clear as ever and sweeter, and 
her eyes — Electa could not at first, find a word for 
the change, — her eyes had become spiritualized. 
Some of the loving-kindness that Celia had found 
by looking up into God’s heart was shining through 
her eyes. 


HER LESSONS. 


329 


How little Mr. Ryle’s mother knew that when 
she was praying for a wife to be found meet for 
David that she was asking for hardness to be sent 
to Celia Given. 

“Who else could?” questioned Electa, coming 
back from the contemplation of Celia’s face. “Oh, 
was it Mr. Ryle ? ” a light flashing over her face as 
she remembered his promise about bringing her 
something Monday night. I 

“ Mr. Ryle ! No one else. His letter came with 
yours. He asked me to telegraph by what train he 
should meet me, and here I am. I had the letters 
after tea Saturday night.” 

Celia’s practical voice was growing dreamy. 
She did not tell Electa what a wave of heart-sick- 
ness had well-nigh overwhelmed her that Saturday 
. night ; how she had left the others, and stolen away 
into the study to throw herself upon the lounge and 
give herself up to a grief that had not the relief of 
tears. “ I must find somebody good on the earth 
or my heart will break,” she had cried. The words 
were not in the form of a prayer, but they were in 
the heart of a prayer. “I want somebody that 
loves Jesus to love me,” had been throbbing in her 
heart all day. At that very moment mamma was 
saying to papa : “ Celia needs to be out somewhere ; 
her world is too narrow,” and while she was speak- 
ing Ned brought in the mail and Vail ran to find 
Celia with two letters in his hand. 

“ And here I am,” Celia repeated, feeling as if 
she were coming again out of the dark study to 


330 


ELECTA. 


open her letters among the group in the dining- 
room at home. 

“Did you come because you thought I was 
dreadful and dreary? Have I behaved so very 
badly ? I did try so hard to be brave,” said Electa, 
her voice choking as she hastily hid her face on 
her sister’s shoulder. 

“My little sister! My little, brave sister,” Celia’s 
arms tightened around her, “ I came because you 
have borne enough and now it is my turn.” 

“There isn’t any thing now to bear,” laughed 
Electa, through quick-coming tears. “ I just had 
time to catch my breath, and then it was all over. 
With you here there isn’t any high wall, or shut- 
up rooms or rats. Oh, will you stay as long as 
Ido?” 

“Just as long as Cousin Jane will like to have 
me stay.” 

Electa laughed and clapped her hands; she al- 
most cried “Oh, goody,” as she used to do; she 
felt as if all her little-girl-hood had come back and 
nothing would ever trouble her again. 

“ Now I’ll be happy forever after. I wonder — 
do you know, Celia, why God let my hard times be 
over so quick ? ” 

“ I think because you were so patient, so ready to 
obey, so ready to learn the lessons He was teaching 
you; He never keeps the ‘hard times’ one moment 
too long.” 

With her own words Celia was comforting her- 
self. 


HER LESSONS, 


331 


“ What does that red flannel mean around your 
neck ? And that smell of — what is it ? ” 

“It means a sore throat. Now tell me how every 
body at home looks ? ” 

“I want to look at you a little while before I 
talk,” said Celia, seating herself in Miss Westlake’s 
chair and taking Electa into her arms. 

Electa lifted her face and Celia kissed her eyes 
and lips. Such happy, dancing eyes ! Such happy, 
tremulous lips ! 

“ What do you see ? ” inquired Electa gravely. 

“ I see that you have learned your lessons.” 

“ What is Vail doing? ” 

“All the old things and some new ones. The 
questions he does ask! He said to me yesterday, ‘I 
don’t see what Christ has to ask God to forgive our 
sins for ; if He is just the same as God, why doesn’t 
He forgive them Himself? ” 

“ What did you say ? ” 

“ I didn’t know how to make him understand.” 

“Don’t you think Mr. Ryle is splendid? He 
could make him understand. He has helped pull 
me through.” 

“ Poor child ! you look pulled through.” 

“ Did you ever see any thing or any body just 
like Mr. Ryle ? ” asked Electa enthusiastically. 

“Not just like him,” admitted Celia. 

“He has been my rock in a weary land,” sighed 
Electa. But it was a happy sigh and Celia did 
not mind it. 

you like him, Celia?” 


332 


ELECTA. 


“ He gave me a feeling of security.” 

“That’s just it; he makes you feel so safe, just 
as if nothing would happen ; and if it did, it might 
better happen than not. You don’t know about 
Queen Isabel ! She loved him, and then refused 
him because she wouldn’t be a minister’s wife, and 
then married an old, old man, very rich. His 
mother told me. How she is laying up things for 
‘ David’s wife ! ’ Did he take you to see his mother ? ” 

“Yes; I spent an hour in her room.” 

“ Isn’t she lovely ? ” 

“Very lovely,” said Celia, absent-mindedly. 

“ He is going away soon — he was going to call 
at The Beehive and I was intending to send those 
things I told you about ; he is going to see some 
lady, I think. I think he has found ‘David’s wife.’ 
But he said his mother hadn’t seen her. Why, 
you shiver, Celia ! Are you so chilly ? ” 

“ Yes, a little. No, I am not at all cold; I was 
only thinking.” 

She was “ only thinking ” that Mr. Ryle had said 
to her as he lifted her out of the carriage at the 
gate, “I was going to The Beehive to see you. 
Miss Celia ; but now I need not go so far. I wanted 
my mother to see you.” 

“ Don’t you admire John Gray, too ? ” 

“I certainly do,” said Celia brightly, coming 
out of her reverie. “ Haven’t you found any one 
else for me to admire ? ” 

“ Grandma ! Oh, she’s as lovely as an old saint. 
I think she’s like Elizabeth, the dear, old Elizabeth 


HER LESSONS. 


333 


who had a son in her old age; and she has taken 
John Gray. Will you go in to see her now ? I sup- 
pose that Mr. R^de has told her what he brought me.” 

They found Mr. Ryle arranging Miss Westlake’s 
pillows and John Gray dropping twenty drops of 
medicine into a wine glass. 

“See how I am served,” said Miss Westlake. 

“And now you have two hand-maidens,” said 
Electa; “did you know she was coming, grandma?” 

“ Of course,” said John Gray. “ She told me 
last night.” 

“ Lecty and I want you,” said Miss Westlake; 
“ will you stay?” 

“ Until you send me home,” returned Celia. 

“ And grandma,” Electa took the wine glass 
and exchanged it from one hand to the other sev- 
eral times before she found courage to add, “ will 
you forget about the hundred dollars? I’ve been 
here such a little time, and now Celia is here I 
shan’t be worth any thing; I haven’t earned it and 
I shall not earn it now.” 

“Suppose I think that you have earned it al- 
ready,” replied Miss Westlake, the gleam of a smile 
in her eyes; “ how will that do ? ” 

“ I know I haven’t,” said Electa decidedly. 

“ I know you have; you earned it that morning 
you went for somebody and you have earned it 
every day since. Mr. Ryle shall get it out of the 
bank for you, and then we’ll say no more about 
money; it shall be a love-arrangement, and you 
and Celia shall stay as long as I want you.” 


334 


ELECTA. 


“Will that be right?” asked Electa, appealing 
to Celia and Mr. Ryle. 

“To be sure,” hastily interposed Miss Westlake. 

“ Grandma can certainly make you a present, if 
she chooses,” said Celia. 

“Its my bargain, Lecty,” said Miss Westlake; 
“I made the bargain in the first place.” 

“ I thank you very, very much,” said Electa, 
playing nervously Avith the wine glass. “ I shall 
send it to papa for Trude. That’s all 1 wanted 
it for.” 

“1 must learn to sign my name with my left 
hand, I suppose,” sighed Miss Westlake. “ I 
couldn’t put Patty to sleep with this hand now.” 

“Mr. Ryle,” Electa turned to him suddenly. 
“Will you take the money and the other things 
when you go ? ” 

“Go where?” he asked confusedly. 

“ I don’t know,” said Electa innocently. “ But 
you said you were going somewhere on business.” 

“ My business can wait,” he said, laughing a little 
and glancing at Celia. But Celia was tying Miss 
Westlake’s cap-strings and would not look at him. 

It touched Electa to see John Gray and Mr. Ryle 
turn and listen whenever Celia spoke — her beauti- 
ful, homely Celia. She wondered if “ David’s wife ” 
could be lovelier than Celia; it was wrong, perhaps, 
to choose when Mr. Ryle had already chosen, but 
she did wish that he had chosen Celia. Then 
there would be two to be the shadow of a rock in 
their people’s weary land. 


HER LESSONS. 


335 


In all their talk of home that night Celia did 
not once allude to Halstead Seymour. Electa al- 
ways remembered the cheery, busy days that fol- 
lowed the dreadful, dreary days. Awaking in the 
morning to find Celia was a new pleasure every 
morning, and the good-night talk was a new pleas- 
ure every night. And all through the day there 
was work and study, and letter-writing, and look- 
ing forward to John Gray at night, and looking 
forward to Mr. Kyle at least twice, and often three 
times during the week. There were sleigh rides 
and going to church, long visits to Mrs. Ryle with 
staying over Sunday to hear Mr. Kyle preach ; there 
were all the pleasant days and nights in grandma’s 
room, and there were the letters from home, and 
from the boys and from Robin and Trude. Trude 
said that she didn’t know why Electa should be so 
good to her; it must be because she was such a 
bad, thankless creature that she couldn’t live with- 
out somebody being good to her. Robin’s letters 
were sweet and fresh; she was as happy as a robin 
in spring-time. 

“Cousin Jennie says that you shall come next 
winter,’’ she wrote to Electa, “ because this winter 
is so doleful to you.” 

“ Doleful ! ” repeated Electa, indignantly. “ I 
wouldn’t exchange places with her for any thing.” 

Miss Westlake regained strength slowly; not un- 
til Christmas Eve did she cross the hall and take 
tea with them in the sitting-room, and then she 
leaned upon John Gray in her tour through the 


336 


ELECTA. 


kitchen, and while she ate, the spoon trembled in 
her poor right hand. 

“ I am as happy as a queen to-night,” she said, 
looking around the table; “no, 1 am happier than 
any queen, unless that queen is a mother among 
her children. I Aqpe Queen Victoria is as happy as 
1 am.” 

That Christmas Eve was an era in more lives 
than one; John Gray and Miss Westlake had a 
long talk in Miss Westlake’s sitting-room; it ended 
in John Gray’s kissing her hand reverently and 
lovingly, and promising to write his name John 
Gray Westlake for evermore. Electa was admit- 
ted, after a while, and to her surprise and very great 
joy, was bidden to remember that John Gray was 
her cousin and a Westlake. 

“ I’m grandma’s Christmas present ! ” exclaimed 
John Gray. “ She asked me to give her John Gray, 
and as I had nothing better to give, how could I 
refuse ? ” 

Before the Franklin, Celia sitting in Miss West- 
lake’s rocker and Mr. Byle standing beside her, 
two others were giving and receiving a Christmas 
gift. 

“ I don’t deserve you,” said Celia, humbly. 

“Ditto,” laughed Mr. Ryle; “we’ll go on not 
deserving each other forever. To-morrow I want 
to give you to my mother.” 

Celia told Electa that night as they held their 
usual good-night talk, each sitting on the rug 
before the Franklin. 


HER LESSONS. 


337 


“ I’m dreadfully surprised,” said Electa mischiev- 
ously. “John Gray and I couldn’t imagine what 
you and Mr. Eyle have been finding to talk about 
all these afternoons and evenings.” 

Mrs. Eyle said to Electa, “ I’ve found David’s 
wife at last, and she’s lovelier and nearer to me 
than I knew how to dream. I tell him — and I 
told her, too — that I got them for each other out 
of God’s heart.” 

When Electa repeated this to Miss Westlake 
she said: “That’s Avhere I got John Gray.” 

John Gray Westlake taught school at Walnut 
Grove through the winter, studying as well as 
teaching, and reciting three times a week to Mr. 
Eyle. Electa studied with him, remembering that 
she was “called,” also, to teach children. She 
could not believe that she was the same forlorn 
maiden who had stood on the piazza that night 
in the rain, “the little girl who came in the storm,” 
for she was learning to love to be “ out in the 
world.” She was even learning to love strangers; 
she was forgetting that she was lame; she was 
becoming so interested in people and things that 
her voice no longer kept down her throat when 
she was introduced to a stranger; she could think 
of something to say ; and she was not afraid to say 
it; some one remarked to Celia one day, “How 
graceful and lady-like your sister is ! ” and Electa 
laid it up to comfort herself with. No one ever 
called her “gawky” and “poky” again. To be 
associated with Mr. Eyle and John Gray was bet- 


338 


ELECTA. 


ter than a college course to Electa without them. 
They had taught her what a happy thing it was 
to live in God’s world, among the people He had 
made to be her own kin. 

One thing that Mr. Kyle said she kept in con- 
tinual remembrance: “God put you on the earth 
and keeps you here because He needs you to do 
His will here; without you, His will would not be 
done as He seeks to have it done, therefore He needs 
you that His plan may be perfect; without your 
life a link in His purposes and plans would be 
missing, and if you always choose to do His will 
you will help make His plan for yourself and all 
others perfect — He needs even little Electa Given 
down here on earth — if He hadn’t needed you He 
never would have thought of making you.” 

Mr. Kyle advised John Gray to lay his manu- 
script aside until he had finished his college course ; 
Electa was sorely disappointed, but her good sense 
accepted Mr. Kyle’s judgment. John Gray West- 
lake never became famous, but he wrote more than 
one book that helped to mould manly character. 
Before Mrs. Kyle was called home she had the 
happiness of being waited upon two years by 
David’s wife. 

“David’s wife, you’ve been good to me,” were 
the last words she spoke to her. 

Miss Westlake lived to see John Gray and Electa 
married; papa and Mr. Kyle married them in Miss 
Westlake’s parlor; Electa’s mother and all her 
brothers and sisters were there as “bridesmaids.” 


HER LESSONS. 


339 


A houseful of people ceased to be a terror to Miss 
Westlake; and, indeed, how could it be otherwise, 
as long as John Gray and Electa loved “ people ” 
more than any thing or any body out in the world. 

With Celia so near and all the others coming 
constantly Electa had her heart’s desire, for the 
old house was as full of sunshine and as full of 
children as it could hold. John Gray and Electa 
taught them all that God’s providence was their 
happiest inheritance, and that they must first look 
up into God’s heart and then go bravely out into 
the world. 




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and Notes, by James Hamilton, D.D. Beautifully printed and 
bound. $4.50. 

“ The Book of Job, the ‘ oldest poem in the world,’ has been illustrated with 
fifty engravings from drawings by John Gilbert, with variety and fancy which he 
nas rarely, if ever, excelled, more especially in the Eastern character of the scenery, 
and the characteristics of its animal life, the supernatural incidents, and localities 
of the Patriarch’s life, its vivid pictures of the husbandman, the warrior, the 
traveller, the sportsman, the stately magnate, and the starving outcast of that 
departed era.” — Illustrated London News. 


8 


BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 



Kitto (John). Bible Illustrations. 4 vols., thick 12mo. ^7.00. 

“ They are not exactly commentaries, but what marvellous expositions you 
have there! You have reading more interesting than any novel that was ever writ- 
ten, and as instructive as the heaviest theology. The matter is quite attractive 
and fascinating, and yet so weighty, that the man who shall study those volumes 
thoroughly will not fail to read his Bible intelligently and with growing interest.’* 
— Spurgeon, 

(William). The Inspiration of the Holy Scriptures: Its 
Nature and Proof. 8vo. $2.50. 

“We consider ‘Lee on Inspiration’ as beyond all comparison superior to any 
work on the subject yet issued in our language.” — Church Journcd. 

L/Ciglitoii (Bishop). Complete Works. 8vo. $3.00. 

“ Archbishop Leighton stands in the front rank of English theological writers. 
His deep piety, meek Christian spirit, clear perception, and metaphysical acumen, 
give him a place in which he stands alone without a rival. There is no English 
edition that equals this in fulness, or in the indexes, and in fact this leaves nothing 
more to be desired.” — Zion’s Herald. 

Lewis (Prof. Tayler). The Six Days of Creation. 12mo. $1.50. 

A professor in one of our colleges writes : “ Prof Lewis’s penetrating insight into 
the conceptions of that remote age in which the Book of Genesis was written, the 
thorough scholarship with which he has elucidated these conceptions, and the vigor 
of reasoning with which he has shown the relation of the Biblical narrative to the 
mythology of the classical ages — these things all combine to stamp upon the book 
a character of originality and profoundness in which it stands alone. There is no 
other like it. It is worth all else that has been written on the subject. Some of 
the passages, too, in which he describes the moral dignity and glory of the inspired 
narrative of the Bible, are among the finest in our literature.” 

Lord (Willis, B.D.). Christian Theology for the People. 8vo. 
$2.50. 

“ I do not hesitate in expressing the opinion that this work is, so far as I know, 
the best book in existence for the purpose of popular instruction in theology.” — 
Dr. E. P. Humphreys. 

* Murdock (James, B.I).). Mosheim's Ecclesiastical History. 
Translated. 3 vols. 8vo. $5.00. 

“ As a text-book it is needed by all our theological students, and should be in 
every well-furnished library. We are glad to see a new edition of it, in three hand- 
some volumes, on good paper, and neatly bound in cloth, at the very low price of 
$5.” — American Presbyterian. 

Translation of Syriac Peshito Version of the New Testa- 

ment. $2.50. 

“ It is a book not only for the learned, but for all who wish to read and under- 
stand the Scriptures.” —A" r. Observer 








